


Just Look, Don't Touch

by oh_fudgecakes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Falling In Love, Fluff, Humor, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, M/M, Pole Dancing, Rags to Riches, Slow Burn, Social Media, Stripper Katsuki Yuuri, Tabloids, also he has serious performance anxiety about competitive pole, and ends as world pole champion, and is trying his hardest to earn some goddamn respect in the process, everyone else still skates, referenced disordered eating, the tale of a stripper who strips to fund his competitive pole dreams, this is basically self-indulgent rags to riches competitive pole/stripper au, to his own confusion, why does no one love competitive pole the way i do, yuuri is still friends with everyone, yuuri starts at the bottom of the stripping ladder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_fudgecakes/pseuds/oh_fudgecakes
Summary: In which Ice Castle Hasetsu shuts down when Yuuri is seven, he never follows Viktor's career as a kid, and he grows to idolise Viktor (and eventually fall in love) anyway.Nineteen and full of hope, Katsuki Yuuri starts working at a strip club to fund his dreams of pursuing competitive pole dancing. However, he soon finds that stripping is nothing like he'd expected. At his lowest point, he meets twenty-three year old Viktor Nikiforov, who turns his whole world around in a single act of kindness before retreating back into the world of competitive figure skating. With new funds and new inspiration, Yuuri begins climbing up the pole-dancing ladder with one eye on Viktor Nikiforov's achievements. He knows Viktor Nikiforov is going to make history, and he wants to make history right along with him— but first, he has to learn to overcome the pressures of competitive sports.





	1. step away from the pole, chris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THIS IS ACTUALLY JUST A SELF-INDULGENT RAGS TO RICHES POLE DANCING AU. I pole dance myself and really love it (I'm more a silks enthusiast than a pole enthusiast tho) and I really wanted to write a stripper AU okay. Also, fair warning: There is some sexual harassment in the beginning, and this fic starts out at a very low point for Yuuri (much like the anime, omg). Also, Yuuri is nineteen when he starts stripping, so don't read if that's going to be squicky for you.
> 
>  **Explanatory Notes About Stripping/Pole:**  
>  Before we begin, let me explain how strippers actually make money. Strippers aren't usually considered employees, but are usually "independent contractors". They pay a fee per shift (a 'house fee') and get to keep all the money they earn during the night. It's industry practice, however, to 'tip out' all the non-dancer staff at the end of the night with a percentage of those earnings. Strippers also buy their own costumes with their own money. Anyway, costs aside, there are few ways that strippers make money:
> 
>  **(1) Stage money:** these are tips earned from stage performances, which dancers are scheduled to perform in.  
>  **(2) Private dance money:** this is earned from selling private dances (usually lap dances), and is usually the bulk of earnings.  
>  **(3) VIP room:** this is the ideal since dancers charge by time instead of by dance for this, and it usually makes them a lot, a lot of money, plus in some places it gives them a chance to earn on drink sales because you have to buy a bottle to get a room  
>  **(4) Drink sales:** this really depends on the country and state, but some clubs pay dancers a commission for the drinks that they sell— for the purpose of this fic, sales commission is a thing.
> 
> Now let's dispel some myths just in case. There's a hierarchy in stripping, and there's also a distinguishing line between pole dancing and stripping, and stripping and prostitution:
> 
>  **(1) Hierarchy:** Strip clubs are the lower-end of the spectrum, and are usually dirtier and cheaper. Gentlemen's clubs are on the higher-end of the spectrum, and are classier and often exclusive to members (wealthy "gentlemen") only. Dancers here are a more like escorts, except naked.  
>  **(2) The Line pt I:** _(a) You can be a pole dancer without being a stripper._ Some people own studios or work as instructors teaching pole dancing WITHOUT stripping. They may or may not supplement their income with prize money from winning pole competitions (winning competitions also increases the prestige of your studio). _(b) You can be a stripper without being a pole dancer._ If you've ever been to a strip club, you know some dancers literally just hold the pole and shake their hips without ever getting up in the air. _(c) You can be both a stripper and a pole dancer._ Some people may teach pole during the day, supplement their income with competition prize money, AND strip at night.  
>  **(3) The Line pt II:** _Strippers are not prostitutes._ Dancers are not allowed to sell sex on premises, but they _can_ take it outside the club  if they wish. Customers are not allowed to touch dancers unless given express permission. Usually a bouncer or other staff will stand discreetly by and supervise private dances to make sure that customers aren't touching dancers without permission.
> 
> That's pretty much it, so without further ado let's get on with the fic!

“Hey, sugar,” a patron slurs into his ear, “I saw you up on the stage just now. Where’dja learn’a dance like that?

Yuuri pulls a smile onto his face as he turns to face the man. It strains at the corners of his lips and the muscles of his cheeks, but the customer will be too drunk to notice in the flashing purple and blue lights.

“My university has a club for recreational pole dancing,” he says politely, “I learnt for free there.”

“University?” the man says incredulously, “University of what? What’cha gettin’ a degree in? A degree in ass-shaking? ‘Cause damn if I ever seen anyone shake ass better’n you, sugar.”

If possible, Yuuri feels his smile get even more strained, but the man doesn’t notice. He is laughing and slapping the seat next to him. It’s clear that he thinks that he’d just paid Yuuri a compliment. Yuuri disagrees, but he sits down at the end of the couch anyway. He’s made _just_ enough stage money to cover house fees for the night, and he _needs_ this man to ask him for a dance.

There’s a man leaning against the bar on Yuuri’s other side, blue eyes and a beanie drawn down to brows a strange shade of silver-grey. He is clearly waiting for a drink. He smiles briefly at Yuuri.

“Was kidding, by the way. Was a compliment,” the first man chuckles, drawing Yuuri’s attention firmly back to him as he drapes an arm over the back of the seat, “So what’cha getting a degree in?”

“Engineering mathematics,” Yuuri whispers, but it’s swallowed under a sudden swell of music.

“What?” the man yells.

_“Engineering mathematics!”_

The man nods slowly.

“Oh, I see,” he leers at Yuuri, eyes half-lidded in inebriation, _“Engineering mathematics,_ eh?”

The tone he uses somehow makes _engineering mathematics_ sound both condescending and like an innuendo. Yuuri is not sure how it is possible to make something as unsexy as _engineering mathematics_ sound like innuendo, but this man has gone and done it anyway.

“Hey, sugar,” the man says suddenly, “How’s about a lap dance, eh? How much you charge for one’a those?”

Yuuri’s breath catches. His voice comes out a little too eager, a little too fast.

“Twenty dollars for a song.”

But—

 _“What?”_ the man yelps, “That’s daylight robbery!”

Yuuri does not point out that it’s a quarter to midnight. The sun has long gone down.

“That’s the rate that all dancers charge here, sir,” he explains nervously.

“But ain’t no one stopping you from charging a lil’ lower, ain’tdey darling?” The customer nods towards another of the new dancers. She’s talking to another customer, but the man shakes his head irritatedly and dismisses her with a wave of his hand. Her face falls. “She gave me one for fifteen.”

He pats his lap, smirking.

“C’mon sugar, haven’t I been real good’ta ya?” he wheedles, honey-sweet, “I don’t want nuthin’ if it’s higher than fifteen anyways.”

It’s coming to the end of Yuuri’s first week, and he’s only been asked for a dance once tonight. He has house fees to cover. He has classes to pay for.

He agrees.

The customer slaps his ass when he turns to go afterward. When he whirls around to look incredulously at the bouncer who’d been supervising the dance, the man pretends not to see. He doesn’t tell the customer that he’s not allowed to touch the dancers. He doesn’t say anything at all.

Yuuri hasn’t been making money. He hasn’t been tipping out the bar-staff or the bouncers, but— it’s his first week. No dancer makes money in their first week. That had been uncalled for.

He goes straight to the bathroom, and sits down in the furthest stall to cry.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri had been seven years old the day he’d found out that Ice Castle Hasetsu had closed for good. It had been struggling for nearly two years by then, as tourism had died down and residents had moved to bigger cities in search of employment.

He’d had to take a month-long hiatus from skating to attend to his exams, but had been on his bike, still in his uniform, cycling excitedly down to the rink the very moment he’d been done. When he’d gotten there, he’d found a notice pasted up on the door. The rink had closed down while he’d been away. The building would be torn down within the month.

He still remembered the sensation of his tiny little world crashing down around him.

By the left side of the rink there had been a rickety old window with a broken latch. Only he, Yuuko, and Takeshi had known about it. The management never bothered to fix it because by then, money had been too short for unnecessary repairs, and the window had been too small for an adult to fit anyway. Of course, Yuuri had been a pretty petit child at seven.

Inside, there had only been empty shelves and dust. The rental skates had all been sold off. At that point, he’d had only just broached the idea of skating competitively with his parents, and had not yet gotten around to getting his own pair. And right then, he knew that he never would. He would never feel the joy of soaring over the ice, strong and free— never learn how to truly _fly_.

He’d walked out onto the ice in his ratty white school shoes and laid on the ice for hours and hours, until the ice had soaked through his clothes to numb him from the grief of his shattered dreams.

 

* * *

 

A soft, respectful, rap against the door breaks him from his misery.

He quiets immediately.

After a short moment, the person raps on the door again.

“Excuse me?”

It’s a man’s voice, unfamiliar and accented. He’s not a staff member.

Yuuri pulls out a wad of tissue and dabs carefully at his eyes. It’s a little too late now, his make-up is probably smeared to hell and back and he probably looks like a drowned circus performer, but he can still try. He throws the blackened tissue into the toilet, flushes, and unlatches the door. The silver-haired customer from before is standing outside.

“I saw what happened,” he says, kindly, “Are you alright?”

Humiliation echoes through Yuuri. The glare comes unbidden to his face.

“Do I _look_ alright to you?” he demands, “Would _you?_ If someone had—“

He breaks off in a sob. He tries to slam the door in the man’s face, but the man reaches out to catch his wrist. He lets go immediately as if burnt.

“Sorry!” he says, sounding alarmed, “Sorry for being insensitive, and sorry for touching you! I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just— I—”

The man shuffles a little on the spot, then looks up at Yuuri.

“You dance like _nothing_ I’ve ever seen before,” he blurts, “The way you move when you’re in the air— I— I couldn’t look away.”

Yuuri just _looks_ at him, incredulously, and tries to slam the door shut again.

“Wait!” the guy cries, catching the door before it can close, “Okay,” he says, “Okay, so I realise how that sounded, but I _swear_ I’m not trying to hit on you while you’re working. What I’m saying is that I have a friend here who pole dances too and doesn’t think much of any of the other dancers here.”

“Are you buying him a lap-dance then?” Yuuri asks coldly, “That’s twenty dollars. I’m not doing it for fifteen.”

“No lap dances!” the man promises, “We have a VIP room with a stage.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen.

“We— we charge per hour to dance in VIP rooms,” he says.

“I know, I know,” the guy laughs, “Look, I’m a dancer too— kind of. I’m not going to try to underpay you. Three hundred per hour until the club closes. I’ll pay you upfront.”

It’s midnight. That’s _one-point-two grand_ right there.

“You— you do know that this isn’t a gentlemen’s club right?” Yuuri feels compelled to ask, “Three hundred an hour is not exactly the going rate for a dancer in an lousy strip club like this.”

“You don’t _dance_ like we’re in a lousy strip club,” the man says matter-of-factly, “So I don’t see why I should _pay you_ like we’re in a lousy strip club.”

Yuuri follows the man into the VIP room.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri had been seven years old the day he had begun throwing himself whole-heartedly into ballet again. Minako had accommodated him happily. He’d gotten good. He had won competitions. He had been accepted into conservatories.

He had rejected them all.

There had been a space in his heart where he remembered the wind in his hair and the seamless glide of his body across the ice. There had been a space in his heart where he remembered what it was to fly. He had rejected the offers. He loved dancing, but there had been an empty space in his heart that dancing just _couldn’t_ fill.

Yuuri had been eighteen years old the day he’d left to complete a degree in _engineering mathematics,_ of all things, halfway across the globe. He hadn't thought too much about it, really. Math had been his best subject in high school. There had been nothing better to do, nothing better to learn. One of the universities that had offered him a partial scholarship had a decent modern dance club. They performed, they competed, they won. There would be pretty intense auditions to get into the club, but he’d been accepted into conservatories all over the world. He would make the cut.

In his first week, he’d walked into the wrong studio, the  _pole_ studio.

_You’re here for the pole trial classes?_

And he’d said yes.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, so you’re Japanese right?”

He broke out of his embarrassment for a moment to parse her question. He was sitting on the floor in his tights and his faculty tee, warming up on auto-pilot. His brain had checked out the moment he'd made the ill-considered decision to lie that he’d come for a trial class in— in _pole dancing,_ heaven help him. _Apparently,_ the modern dance studios were _on the other end of campus._ He didn’t know how he had gotten it so wrong, but he had gotten it _so wrong._ Why had he never learnt to say no? Come to think of it, why hadn’t he just said that he’d walked into the wrong studio? 

Oh, yes.

He'd been way too embarrassed to admit that he had ended up on the wrong side of campus because he didn't have any friends, because he still couldn’t read English well, because he still couldn't _speak_ English well. In fact, he didn't even know that he would have been able to explain his mistake to her properly in English. The people here just spoke _so_ quickly, and the way they spoke sounded nothing like the accented English he'd heard in Japanese classrooms growing up. And so, when the girl had asked him if he’d come for the trial class, he’d just said yes.

Now there he was, warming up in a room full of stripper poles. _Heaven_ _help him._

“Hello?”

 _“Hai,”_ he responded automatically, “I mean, yes. Excuse me, my English is poor. University is first time I am leaving Japan.”

The girl giggled.

“That’s okay,” she assured him, “My roommate is Vietnamese. When she first came here she could barely speak a word of English, but a year later and she’s now fluent enough to curse me out for leaving my laundry in the washing machine.”

He laughed nervously in response, and said nothing else. He didn’t really know what to say. Half of what she had said had flown right over his head anyway. But seemingly unbothered by his silence, the girl just jumped to her feet, swinging her arms up over her head and then side-to-side.

“I don’t think anyone else is coming,” she admitted, “Pole is a pretty niche sport.”

_Neesh? Nish?_

Yuuri just nodded blankly.

“Do you want to start? Are your shoulders warm?”

“My… _shoulders?”_

The girl gasped, hand flying to her mouth.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you!” she yelped, “When you warm up for pole, you’re less concerned about your legs than other sports and dance-forms. Instead, you gotta make sure your shoulders are _reaalll_ warm so you don’t pull something.”

She paused to consider.

“But we’re only doing beginner moves today, so it doesn’t really matter. Just go ahead and do ten push-ups and we should be good to go.”

He got down on his belly and did the prescribed ten push-ups.

“Alright. First things first. Take off your pants.”

Yuuri blinked, mentally translated what she’d said into Japanese, and then flushed down to his chest.

_“What?”_

The girl only laughed.

“Look, you need skin to stay on the pole,” she explained, “Pole dancers aren’t always dressed so skimpily just because it’s a _fashion choice._ You aren’t going to get anywhere with clothes on. We have spare shorts in the cabinet over there. Do you want to borrow them?”

Underneath his tights, he was wearing only a dancer’s belt. He took her up on her offer.

When he emerged from the adjoined changing room, the girl was wiping a pole down with something that smelled like rubbing alcohol. She looked him over.

“Better. Now, stand with the pole on your dominant side.” Yuuri did as he was told. “You want to reach up with your dominant hand and grasp the pole. The trick is to make sure that you aren’t holding it too high that your shoulder's scrunched up to your ear— like this,” she demonstrated, “Or too low that your elbow is bent too much— like this.”

She smiled at Yuuri in the mirror.

“If you’re holding it too low, you won’t have enough height to do anything,” she explained, “That’s always a real pain with pole.”

“Okay,” he said.

“I’m going to teach you some beginner spins, alright?” she grinned, “We’ll start with the Geisha, because— well.”

She gestured at him. All of him.

“Okay,” he said.

There was nothing else he could have said.

“So you start by taking a step around the pole with your inside leg,” she did so, and Yuuri hastened to copy her, “Swing your outside leg around. If you lift it higher or swing it harder, you’ll spin faster when you get up on the pole. Reach across your body and grab the pole with your free hand as you swing,” Yuuri complied, “Alright, so what happens after this, is that you’ll hook your outside leg onto the pole at the end of the swing, and lift your other leg up so that you’re sitting like—“

She got off the pole and sat on the floor with her legs folded to one side.

“Well, I’m assuming that _geishas_ don’t actually sit like this,” she laughed, “So, like a mermaid?”

“Yes,” he said.

She got up.

“You’ve got to do it all at once!” she told him, as she performed the beginning motions, “If you don’t, you won’t have enough momentum to keep on spinning— but you have to control the swing so that you don’t spin too fast.”

She spun up and onto the pole, ending up in the sit she had demonstrated.

“If you feel secure enough, you can take one hand off. The _bottom_ hand,” she demonstrated, “You can reach out like this, you can keep it by your side— you can do whatever you want with it that you think looks prettiest.”

She continued spinning. Somehow, she didn’t seem to be stopping.

“Alright, so when you think you’ve had enough of meaningless spinning,” Yuuri let out a breath of surprised laughter, “There are many ways to come down. My favourite way is to just— slide down,” she loosened her hold, and began to slip slowly down the pole, “Until you’re sitting on the ground.”

She grinned up at him from the floor.

“Now you try.”

He reached up and grasped the pole, just like they’d practiced, took the first step forward— _swung_ himself up and onto the pole—

_“Nonono—“_

_—_ and started _screaming._

“Slide down slowly, _slowly!”_

The rest of it was a blur.

The next thing he knew, he was flopping over onto his back on the floor of the studio, ceiling spinning crazily above him.

“You see, this is a _spinning pole._ If you’re not careful, you’ll spin too fast and that’s not good. You gotta do it slow, you gotta control the swing, and at the end, you gotta _lift_ into it. You can’t just swing into it like—“

Yuuri burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that his stomach hurt. He laughed harder than he had since he’d first come to Los Angeles.

“That was—“ he gasped, “That was _fun._ ”

It had been like flying again for the first time in years.

 

* * *

 

“The music here is… I do not have the words for it in English,” the blond man says, “And not in the good way.”

Christophe. That’s what he’d said his name was. He’d introduced himself when Yuuri had come in, but Yuuri can neither pronounce nor remember his last name.

“Mmhm,” Yuuri agrees absently, and _lifts_ slowly up an inverted straddle.

“It’s not music that’s good to dance to.”

He hooks one leg around the pole, reaches _up_. He pulls himself closer to the pole, spinning faster and faster, arching back and around the pole.

“It isn’t,” he agrees again, “I hate it, but I don’t choose the music.”

“Then who does?”

“The DJ.” He swings himself around and into a sit. “Or in private rooms, I guess _you_ do. You can plug your phone in to the speaker over there if you’d like.”

The silver-haired man, the one from the bathroom, smiles sunnily. His name is Viktor. Just Viktor. No last name provided.

“How about you plug in _yours_ , _myshka_ , and play something that _you_ like?”

Yuuri nearly falls off the pole in shock. He turns the slip into a drop at the last minute, then unfurls into a crouch on the floor.

“Is that okay?” he asks nervously, “Isn’t there any genre you’d prefer?”

“Anything with more romance. Anything with more cheer. Anything with more _passion!”_ Christophe sighs, _“Mon dieu,_ just _anything_ but this lifeless travesty of music.”

Yuuri can’t help but laugh. Christophe sounds European. He can’t discern what exactly the language he’d spoken had been, but he can tell that much. He thinks that Viktor might be as well. He licks his lips and kicks off his heels, dropping them carefully off the side of the stage, before padding over to the sound system to connect his phone to the speakers.

He chooses a flamenco piece.

“Oho!” Christophe laughs, “This boy has style!”

It’s a piece that Minako had loved when he’d been a boy. She had performed to it when she’d still been with the Tokyo Ballet, and had happily performed it for him whenever he’d asked. He had loved watching her dance to it as a little boy. Even now, he still remembers the sharp twists, the defiant angle of her jaw, tilted up and proud. He still remembers the claps of the tambourine, the tapping of heels. He still remembers the snappish flares of her red skirt as she’d spun and twirled.

He takes that memory now, and makes it into art.

Across the stage, stamping and turning and raising his arms up and around. Spinning up onto the pole, arching and rolling and sweeping his hands through his hair, down his body. Two sharp claps. He twines himself around the pole, closing his eyes and sinking into the music. Back onto the floor. He improvises the floor work. Falling, rising, only to fall once more, leaping, turning, sliding, rolling.

“Are you classically trained?” Viktor asks.

“Since I was a boy,” Yuuri answers, hoists himself up the pole again, “I started ballet when I was four, moved on to modern, then jazz— tried hip-hop and ballroom for awhile even.”

“ _Mon cher,_ my dear boy!” Christophe announces suddenly, standing, “You _must_ tell me your name!”

“It’s uh, Yuuri,” Yuuri responds automatically.

“Very good, Yuuri,” Christophe declares, and begins to undo his fly, “Because I will not dance with someone whose name I do not know. Yuuri, _mon petit renard,_ get ready to see true romance, true passion— true _eros!”_

“Uhm,” Yuuri says.

Christophe drops his pants. He is wearing a thong.

“But first,” he says, downing a whole flute of champagne, “A toast. We must drink together!”

“I apologise for Chris’ behaviour,” Viktor says gleefully, as Christophe climbs onto the stage with the whole bottle in hand. There’s something unabashedly sly about his innocent, close-eyed smile. His phone is on his lap. It’s open to the camera screen. “I would blame it on the alcohol, except that Chris is like this both drunk _and_ sober.”

Christophe pushes the bottle in Yuuri’s hands, and without hesitation or warm-up, flips himself up into a deadlift. He turns to look at Yuuri, and winks. Yuuri flushes as he draws his tongue slowly across his bottom lip. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this happening to him.

“Drink, Yuuri, drink!” Christophe yells down at him as he wraps his legs onto the pole, and does something absolutely _sinful_ with his hips, “Those who dance together, drink together! Chug!”

Yuuri looks down at the bottle in his hand.

“This—“ he says unsurely, “This is champagne. You want me to chug _champagne?”_

Viktor downs his champagne, and raises his empty flute.

“Chug, chug, chug!” he chants. Oh god.

Yuuri looks around him. There’s a customer on the pole in a black thong. There’s a sultry flamenco blasting over the speakers. His other customer is trying to persuade Yuri to chug the club’s best bottle of champagne like cheap vodka. He has completely and utterly lost control of the situation.

He puts the bottle to his lips, takes a deep breath, and tips it up.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri had been nineteen years old the day he’d realised that free pole classes at his university would never be enough if he wanted to make a life out of what he loved. A retired dancer, Miss Pole Dance Ukraine for four years running, had been passing through. She had agreed to teach a masterclass when asked.

 _You,_ she had called to him at the end, imperious and arrogant, _why are you here?_

 _Uh,_ he’d stammered, bewildered, _because I like dancing?_

 _You lie,_ she’d snapped, and he’d blanched, frightened and confused, _I see you when you dance. You are dead corpse. But you get onto pole, you get into air, and you become alive again. What is ‘like’? For someone who dances like you, ‘like’ is not strong enough word. That is compliment, boy. Don’t look so frightened._

 _Thank you,_ he’d said, unsure how else to respond.

 _You want to become real dancer?_ she had demanded.

In that moment, he had already known that the answer was _yes._

 _Only best dancer can become real dancer,_ she had whispered, _others become only stripper. I see you dance. I see that is not you. You must find better place to learn. There is studio downtown. Good teacher. I give you number. You save up money and you go to her._

The thing was— Yuuri had been fourteen years old the day his parents had tearfully told him they could no longer afford dance lessons. Tourism had left Hasetsu completely, and the _onsen_ had fallen on bad times. Yuuri had been fourteen years old the day he’d started working part-time in Minako’s studio in exchange for lessons. He had taught beginner ballet to children. He had substituted for her on days that her old hip injury acted up. She had allowed it because he had always, always been her favourite student.

If he wanted lessons, he would have to pay for it himself.

Yuuri had been nineteen years old the day he’d started working in a seedy old strip club called _The Prix._

 

* * *

 

“So, what brings you two to _The Prix,”_ Yuuri asks sometime nearing one, loose and languid from the champagne, “I’m guessing this isn’t your usual scene?”

“No,” Viktor admits, tying his long hair back into a ponytail. He’d taken his beanie off some fifteen minutes ago. Underneath it, his hair is a gorgeous platinum blond. “Chris turned twenty-one two months ago. This is a belated celebration because we aren’t often in the same country at the same time.”

The apparent birthday boy had left the room some fifteen minutes ago to take a call. The voice over the phone had sounded strangely irate. _We’re not supposed to be here,_ Viktor had whispered in a conspiratory tone, _I’m just waiting to get my own irate call._

“Where _do_ you both come from?”

“Nuh-uh-uh,” Viktor sing-songs teasingly, “It’s my turn to ask the questions.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow, but allows it.

“How come,” Viktor asks, pointing, “you have a tattoo of a skate on your hip?”

Yuuri angles his body so that the man can see it better. It’s a tiny little thing, an outline of a figure skating boot about the size of his thumb. He’s surprised that Viktor had noticed.

“I skated as a kid,” he confesses, “I was pretty serious about it and was just about to go competitive when the rink in my hometown shut down. I couldn’t continue after that, but I always thought about it. I missed it. There’s this special feeling you get on the ice. Dancing never quite compared.”

“That’s awful,” Viktor declares. He looks sincerely upset on Yuuri’s behalf.

“It’s okay. If I gone into competitive skating,” Yuuri laughs, “I would never had loved pole as I do. I don’t regret learning to love pole. It’s— important to me. That special feeling comes back when I’m in the air. How could I regret that?”

“And is that what brought _you_ to _The Prix?”_ Viktor prods.

“I guess. I’m saving up for better lessons. This was the only club that would take me.”

Yuuri laughs self-deprecatingly, but Viktor doesn’t laugh along. He looks serious.

“I’ve seen you dance, Yuuri,” and there’s _something_ about the languid way he _rolls_ Yuuri’s name over his tongue, “Why _wouldn’t_ anyone take you?”

Yuuri lowers his eyes.

“I think it’s because,” he whispers, “I lack confidence. When you interview, most clubs don’t ask you to dance, or if they do, it’s not really about the dancing. Mostly they just eyeball you. I couldn’t get into any of the gentlemen’s clubs because I’m not charismatic enough. I don’t give the impression that I can sell _anything_ , and the thing is that they’re absolutely right. You— you saw how it went outside. The only people who’ll buy dances from me are those who can tell I’m desperate, and are willing to take advantage of that.”

“You don’t lack confidence _at all_ when you’re dancing,” Viktor points out.

Yuuri rolls his eyes.

“That’s because there’s a persona to go with every dance,” he explains, “That isn’t me, that’s just the persona.”

Viktor smiles.

“Well, what is it that you think people come to these sort of places to buy?”

Yuuri’s mind goes straight into the gutter. He drags it forcefully back out, flushing deep.

“Um,” he says, “A lap dance from a person in particularly skimpy clothes?”

Viktor laughs.

“No,” he says, “They come to buy a fantasy. They come to buy a good time with a person who is exactly tailored to their wants and needs. They come to buy a person, perfectly suited to their tastes, who’ll make them feel like they’re something special. They come to buy a _persona._ ”

There’s a moment of silence as Yuuri mulls that over.

“With a routine, the persona is always up to the dancer to decide,” he says slowly, “But with _this_ , I have to _guess_ what a customer wants. How am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to guess exactly the sort of persona every single person I approach is looking for?”

“Aha!” Viktor says, and laughs, “The beauty of selling a persona is this — you don’t. You decide on a persona that is marketable to a decent amount of people, you stick to it, and eventually those who’re looking for a dancer like you will come. The more you stick to your persona, the more people will come. If you break it, people will say you’re faking it — which is true, of course, but it breaks the fantasy, and no one likes a liar. Your persona has to be consistent to maintain the fantasy you’re selling.”

It makes sense. It makes a _whole lot of sense_. Yuuri can feel the whole thing slotting together now.

“It’s just one long dance,” he realises, “Even after I get off the stage, I’ll still be dancing. I’ll dance as long as the music plays. I’ll dance until everyone's gone.”

Viktor smiles like the cat that got the cream.

“But what persona?” Yuuri asks, half to himself and half to Viktor, and _now_ he’s getting excited, “What is a persona that will sell, but isn’t like everyone else?”

“Oh, _myshka,_ ” Viktor chuckles, “When you dance, the whole room wants you and you know it. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, you’re wanted — but you know you’ll never let anyone have you. That’s how you dance. You dance like you’re saying _don’t you dare take your eyes off me_. You dance like you’re saying _look closely here, because this is all you’re going to get._ You have a perfectly good persona, _myshka,_ and you don’t even know it.”

Yuuri laughs, stunned and delighted, because this could work. This could _work._

“Do you understand now?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, “Yes, I do.”

“Good,” Viktor grins, “Now, once you’re off the stage, how are you going to make me feel like I’m special? How are you going to sell me that dance?”

“Hmm,” Yuuri hums — and that’s it, that’s the persona clicking in over boring, small-town-country-hick Yuuri, over nineteen-year-old, engineering-mathematics-major Yuuri, “You know,” he says, low and sultry, “I think I like you.”

He lets the wicked grin slide naturally into place.

“How would you like a dance?”

Viktor raises his glass.

“Congratulations,” he says, “Sold.”

 

* * *

 

Christophe comes back around one A.M. with two unopened bottles of whisky, a pair of sunglasses he had _not_ come into the club with, and a handful of dollar bills tucked into his underwear because, yes, he _had_ left the room in only his thong. He also comes with a horde of rowdy people that Viktor had warned him about after getting a series of texts from one _Georgi Popovich._

Yuuri does not remember much after the seventh shot had been pushed insistently into his hands.

He wakes in his own bed the next morning, with the mother of all hangovers, and a heartfelt wish for death. Luckily, his roommate has left a packet of aspirin and a glass of water by his bed. _Yuuri,_ reads the note beside the glass, _I’ve gone for class. Google ‘skaters skip world championship banquet perez hilton’ when you wake up._

Yuuri sits up to look for his phone. He immediately flops back into bed, groaning at the nausea, worsened by the spinning of the ceiling above him, and the excruciating pain in his head.

When the room has finally stopped spinning, he opens his eyes to see that his roommate had considerately placed his phone beside the note. The notifications inform him that he has eighteen missed calls from Minako, seven from Yuuko, twelve from Mari, and over twenty from an assortment of other numbers, He has  _seven hundred and three_ unread texts. There’s even a missed call from an unknown foreign number. The area code is neither American nor Japanese.

He dismisses the notifications and opens Safari.

 

 

 

 _ **PEREZ HILTON: Gold & Silver Medallists Skip World Championship Banquet for Night Out**  
_30/03/2009 8:38 AM PST

Did someone spike the punch? Last night was undeniably a wild night for celebrity gossip. While  **Justin Bieber was spotted dancing suggestively with ex, Selena Gomez** at a club downtown,  pictures taken at a private gala sparked rumours that  **Tay Tay may have found herself a new boy-toy** , Meanwhile, Azealia Banks was busy getting **forcibly removed from** **a restaurant in central London for ‘unruly behaviour ’** and, as the title references, a pair of figure skating medallists were hitting the town for a night out in Los Angeles.

Pictures posted in the wee hours of the morning by World Championships silver medallist, Christophe Giacometti, showed him pole dancing with who appeared to be a male stripper at a low-end strip club. Not to be defeated on _or_ off the ice, reigning World Champion Viktor Nikiforov soon upped the game by uploading a set of selfies of himself— carefully angled to catch Giacometti falling off the pole behind him.

But heart-warming as **@christophe-gc** and **@v-nikiforov** ’s bromance is, we can’t help but wonder what their coaches think of their night of debauchery. Last night had been the night of the World Championships closing banquet, for which Nikiforov and Giacometti had bagged gold and silver medals respectively. Skaters are generally expected to mingle with potential sponsors and fellow competitors during such events.

A twitter feud has broken out following the release of the pictures. While haters think that their behaviour had been a blatant act of disrespect towards competitors, fans and friends were quick to jump to their defence. One of them was Italian skater, Sara Crispino.

 

 ** _Sara Crispino @_** _sala-crispino . 2h  
__you guys need to lay off!_ _chris just turned 21 and victor’s flight back to moscow was scheduled for saturday afternoon. there was no disrespect intended. there was just no better time!_

 **_Sara Crispino @_ ** _sala-crispino . 2h  
_ _most of us joined them after the banquet was over anyways, myself and my brother (who competed against them mind you!) included. i think i speak for everyone when i say no offence was taken._

 

An insider source confirms that the eighteen-year-old had indeed joined the two after the conclusion of the banquet, along with her twin brother Michele Crispino, Chinese skater Cao Bin, and Russian skaters Georgi Popovich and Anya Volkova. No other photos were taken of that night. Our source implied that this may have been due to the presence of underage skaters. Scandalous indeed!

 

 

 

 _Ah,_ Yuuri thinks, a little hysterically, _I think I know what all the missed calls and unread texts are about now._

He turns his phone off, pulls a pillow over his head, and goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he calls the owner of _The Prix_ to say that he’s quitting. The man is understandably devastated. Yuuri had, after all, just single-handedly pulled in more than two thousand dollars in alcohol expenditure and VIP room fees in a single night. The man wheedles and huffs and tries vainly to persuade Yuuri to stay. _I’ll photograph you in future marketing,_ he says, _I’ll include you in our list of primary dancers,_ he says, _you’ll have the exposure you need,_ he says.

Yuuri just smiles, and pleasantly informs the owner that he ought to ensure the bouncers do their jobs to protect the safety of dancers, if he wants to keep the good ones from leaving.

He’d made enough off the upfront fee alone for _months_ of private classes. Combined with the tips he’d made from the other skaters, and the sales commission on the alcohol they had purchased, he has enough for six months with plenty to spare. He signs up immediately for private training with the woman the masterclass instructor had recommended, registers to join the theatre club, and spends some of the remainder on a three-day image training workshop. The rest, he puts away.

 _Costumes,_ he thinks as he deposits the money, _Make-up. Better shoes._

He trains, and plans, and makes careful investments. He moves out of the dorms and into a cheaper apartment between campus and his new pole studio — his new housemate is a sixteen-year-old boy who’d moved from Bangkok to train at a skating club nearby. He buys and installs a pole that has both spinning and static settings. He shops carefully for costumes that match his new persona, and designs his make-up to go with it. He practices his expressions in the mirror.

He starts following competitive figure skating again. When his housemate plays reruns of old competitions, Yuuri joins him. When his housemate gossips about the lives of competing skaters, Yuuri listens. He watches a grainy recording of Viktor Nikiforov’s senior debut, the performance that had charmed the world and broken two world records, and it makes him cry.

He watches all of Viktor Nikiforov’s programmes— every last one of them. When he’s done, he watches them again, and again, and again. He choreographs routines inspired by his favourite programs. His housemate eventually buys him an actual poster of Viktor Nikiforov— _because you’re obsessed,_ he’d said, _but fair enough, that guy’s a legend—_ which he pins up on his bedroom wall. _He’s my inspiration, Phichit,_ he’d confessed once, late at night as they laid in the living room watching reruns of the Worlds, _he’s the reason that I do what I do._

Yuuri is nineteen years old the day he realises that he’s maybe — just _maybe —_ fallen a little in love. Somewhere between the competition reruns, the old interviews, the talk shows, the thousand-and-one windows into _Viktor Nikiforov_ scattered like precious white feathers over social media, he’s fallen a little in love with the idea of Viktor Nikiforov.

 _Ah,_ he thinks, _so that’s what it means to sell a persona._

Eventually, he’s planned all that he’s needed to plan, invested all that he’s needed to invest, and is ready as he’ll ever be to try again. All he needs is a stage name. _Take your time,_ his housemate had said, _the name is the most important part of any persona._

In the fall, he watches the debut of Viktor Nikiforov’s new short program, _In Regards to Love: Eros._ It wins him a standing ovation. Yuuri knows that it’ll win him another world record by the end of the season.

The very next day, Yuuri dresses his best, puts his face on, and heads down to the best gentlemen’s club in town. Afterwards, he goes home and watches the free skate. _Stay Close to Me_ reduces him to tears. Yuuri can’t wait to see Viktor at the Winter Olympics.

 

 

 

 

 _'It’s good to see that Nikiforov came through again._ _There’d been rumours that he’d been losing inspiration.'_

_'Oh, yes. According to press interviews with his coach, Feltsman, he’d only started choreographing in April.'_

_'April! Most skaters have their choreographies_ finalised _by then!'_

_'I must say I’m glad to see it all worked out in the end.'_

_'More than worked out, in my opinion. I think we may very well have our next Olympic Champion.'_

 

 

 

 

Yuuri gets the call on a Tuesday morning.

“We’d like to schedule you in,” a woman says over the phone, “I’ve sent you an email with a list of shifts. You can indicate when you’re available, and I’ll email you a pdf copy of the contract. Is that alright?”

“More than alright,” he says.

"What should I call you while you’re working?”

He pushes his hair back from his face, and smiles a secretive little smile.

“You can call me _Eros._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 2009 World Figure Skating Championships took place in Los Angeles. The 2010 Winter Olympics took place at the end of the following season in Vancouver.
> 
> Ahhhh, I have classes but I just want to write this thing. This is so self-indulgent, jfc, I'm actually ashamed of myself. That said, if you have any comments, feedback, or you just want to yell, please leave a comment. I have a rough idea of how this will go in my head, but no concrete outline so whatever you guys say really helps me get my thoughts and the plot together. Tentatively, this will have 3 - 4 chapters and may potentially be updated in a super erratic manner. I'm honestly not the best or the most inspired writer. If you want to yell about YOI things, you can find me on tumblr as [asideoftrashplease](https://asideoftrashplease.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fictional and may not be an accurate portrayal of what it's really like to work as a stripper. That is because I have never actually worked as a stripper even though I've considered trying. This fic is also inspired by [The Boy with the Dragon Tattoo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3235163) by [Evilpixie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilpixie/pseuds/Evilpixie) that you should _definitely_ read if you're a Batman fan— particularly a person who loves the Robins oh, my, god.


	2. yuuri's adventures in bad grip, bad height, and bad momentum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter, we had a stripper info dump. In that info dump, we established that stripping and pole dancing are two different things. This chapter, we will have A POLE DANCING INFO DUMP. Get ready guys, you’re getting this info dump whether you like it or not. It’s also longer than the stripper one, sorry.
> 
>  **Static vs. Spinning pole:** There are two pole settings. Static (does not spin), and spinning. Most studios use poles that have both a spinning and a static function, which you can toggle using a little key. The majority of pole dancers have a preference, but if you’re going competitive you need to be able to do both. This is because international competitions require you to make use of both spinning and static poles. That’s why if you watch pole competitions, you’ll always see two poles on the stage. One is spinning and one is static.
> 
> There are people who say that spinning pole is “cheating” because momentum helps you lift into and hold difficult poses. When you’re spinning, your weight is spread outwards, so it’s a lot easier support your own weight. However, I am decidedly not of the “spinning is cheating” camp. Spinning pole takes a lot more strength in control because you can’t just swing into spins (you’ll spin too fast) or drop too quickly into poses (you’ll break the momentum and stop spinning). It’s kind of like lifting weights versus adagios in ballet.
> 
>  **Dancing vs. Pole Dancing:** Sometimes, you’ll see amazing pole dancers complaining that they are bad dancers even though they can flip and tumble and do some pretty crazy poses. They are not necessarily being modest. Being a good pole dancer usually means being able to perform difficult moves and transitions. Being a good dancer is usually a matter of musicality, rhythm, styling, floor work, flow, and just a whole load of things that turns pole sport into pole art. You can be a good pole dancer, but a bad dancer. I’m one of those people. This also plays into competition components, like in skating.
> 
>  **Competitions:** _(a) Components:_ In skating it’s pretty clear-cut because there are only two components: TES (technical), and PCS (presentation). In pole, it’s not so clear-cut because there are quite a few different international competitions that have different components. There are some with two components like in skating, and some that have a whole load of components with some that are technical like “difficulty of transitions” or “difficulty of moves” and some that are presentation like “musicality” or “flow”.  
>  _(b) Qualifiers:_ Like skating, there are a lot of small regional competitions, and there are also nationals and internationals. Nationals are usually qualifiers for various internationals. However, there are different national qualifiers for different international competitions, so you don’t just have one nationals like in skating. I don’t know the timeline, and no one has posted any handy “pole season timelines” that I can find, simply because pole is not as organised as skating. So I’m winging it.
> 
>  **Other miscellaneous information:** _(a) Inverts_ are extremely important transition moves you must learn. This is a [basic invert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHTJyHJdW1s), which is the first you learn. The others are [shoulder mounts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xMv3s98xYy0&t=1s) and [deadlifts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPGncyO14Zw&t=19s). As you can see, they all involve getting upside down, because getting upside down is very important in pole and other aerial sports. It’s a lot easier to do these with bent legs, or one leg bent (like in [this](https://68.media.tumblr.com/58a1b86c3f5235c42b22527795b0ee9d/tumblr_inline_ohu7jbAyo11sgn1pm_540.png) picture of Chris), than with both legs straight, because physics _(b) Drops_ are pole moves that start from a higher point on the pole and involves a release of contact and a fast drop before the dancer catches him/herself at a lower point on the pole. By competition standard, dancers cannot touch the pole with their hands for it to count as a drop. _(c) Grip aids_ are basically the messiah to dancers with sweaty palms (aka me). They can be anything from liquid chalk (I use a brand of this called Dry Hands), to adhesives, to rubbing alcohol, to magical potions that just magically stop your palms from sweating. They solve one of the three mortal enemies of pole dancers: grip, height, and momentum. That’s all you have to know.

_Bratty Catty’s_ has a reputation. Risqué, flamboyant, with dancers that flirt and giggle but have sharp tongues and even sharper grins. It has a mix of male and female dancers and an exclusive membership, mostly consisting of rich gay, bisexual, or bi-curious corporate elites. _Bratty Catty’s_ is the most discreet gentlemen’s club in Los Angeles, the customers say. The good ol’ Missus Catty won’t have it any other way, they say. She greets customers by name when they come in.

The owner, manager, and titular Missus Catty is a middle-aged woman, voluptuous and a little on the plump side, with grey eyes and tight blonde ringlets. During hours, she sits at the bar and speaks with a slight Irish accent, responds with flirtatious winks and a toss of her curls to raucous calls of _Catty,_ _Missus Catty!_ Off hours, Yuuri often finds her sitting at the counter with a calculator and the invoices, doing the accounts with a pair of wireframe glasses sitting low on her nose. She had been an accountant by profession, a pole hobbyist turned gentlemen’s club owner. She’s stern, perfectionistic, and protective. She goes by Cathy when the club is closed during the daytime, and has an extremely distinct North Jersey accent.

 _No touching customers below the waist,_ Cathy says sternly when he comes to the club to sign his contract, _absolutely no grinding, and if you want to accept a proposition, take it outside the club. We are not a brothel._

If a customer touches him without his permission, he is to politely inform them that they are not allowed to touch him. If they persist, he is to firmly move their hands away and repeat himself slightly less politely. If they still persist, he just has to look at one of the supervising bouncers straight in the eye, and the customer will be escorted from the club. Cathy tells him this three times. _I don’t know what the other clubs you’ve danced in are like,_ she had said, _but at Bratty Catty’s, we don’t let anyone disrespect our dancers._

Yuuri appreciates the professionalism.

Eros is set to dance at _Bratty Catty’s_ late on a Thursday night in his first week. Yuuri tells Phichit all of this as he’s getting ready for his shift. Phichit listens with vague amusement.

 _I still find it hard to believe some days,_ he explains when questioned, _that my housemate, who wears dri-fit shirts and trackpants twenty-four-seven, who falls asleep in front of the TV with one hand still in a packet of Cheetos, and gets Cheeto dust all over the couch, who chooses to ignore the existence of the seven— seven!— laundry hampers I’ve strategically placed around the house— is an actual stripper._

Living with Phichit, he has gotten used to being suddenly and ruthlessly dragged at the most unexpected times. That’s one of the reasons why they have become tentative friends. Another reason is because Phichit is smart, socially-savvy, and gives very good advice.

 _You should tip the staff extra at the end of your shift,_ Phichit says off-handedly, _just this once— to show your appreciation for how it’s a bajillion times better than your old haunt._

 _Yeah,_ Yuuri replies, _maybe I should,_ and thinks nothing more of it.

He puts his face on, wears his costume under his joggers, and throws a hoodie on. He takes the subway with the hood pulled up to hide the fact that he’s wearing foundation and contour, earbuds plugged in with his pole playlist playing to get himself in the right headspace — and thanks his own foresight that he’d decided to do his eyeshadow at the club.

When he emerges from the dressing room to the heavy bass and the clinking of glasses, he’s nervous — extremely so. His palms are starting to sweat underneath the liquid chalk, turning it tacky, and his vision is all but swimming. He keeps his eyes down and focuses on his own breathing. He isn’t Eros then. He’s just Yuuri — scared, shy, and unattractive Yuuri. 

The DJ makes an announcement over the system as the song draws to a close. He tunes most of it out, but startles when he hears the call of _Eros._ He’s up.

He climbs up onto the stage as if in a trance, his breath coming short. He thinks of falling on stage, thinks of the slap of a stranger’s palm over his ass — thinks of having to sell himself cheap again. He’s almost ready to cry. His limbs feel heavy with dread, and he can't breathe through the lump in his throat.

Then, as he reaches up and nervously grips the pole— the familiar width of the pole, the feeling of the chrome coolunder his fingers— it cuts through the panic and hits something deep inside of him.

Yuuri slips away. He slides seamlessly into _Eros_. _Click._

He lets go of the pole. The club seems a little clearer now, the voices around him more than just a muted cacophony.

“Now—“ the DJ is shouting, over the raucous calls of the women right in front of the stage. He can immediately tell that it’s a hen party. The women are already tipsy. “Eros is relatively new to the club—“

A sudden swell of laughter. Someone has drunkenly knocked over a bottle of wine. The DJ chuckles helplessly and shrugs at Yuuri in good humour, but there’s a greedy little voice whispering jealously in the back of Yuuri's head. It’s saying: they should be watching _me._

He steps forward, grips the pole, and swings himself up into a quick, hard backflip. The hard _thunk_ of his landing cuts loud and sharp through the club. The laughter cuts off suddenly.

“Oh my god,” the woman nearest to the stage says, “Did you fucking see that?”

He grins jauntily, crouches to blow her a kiss. She turns red. All eyes are on him now, from the women by the stage to the men in suits at the back of the club. Even Missus Catty is watching him, brows raised in amused interest from behind the counter.

“Erm— right,” the DJ says, looking stunned and a little impressed, “As I was saying, Eros is relatively new to _Bratty Catty’s—“_

An _oooo_ rings out, and Eros bats his lashes.

“It’s my first night,” he coos, “Please take care of me.”

The DJ laughs.

“And as you can see,” he continues, wickedly, “He has one hell of an attitude.”

He closes his eyes, tuning the DJ out as the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pta-gf6JaHQ) begins, a long instrumental intro, letting the grin spread naturally across his lips as he settles into it, as he inhabits the rhythm until he can feel it pulsing in his body, in his veins, in the very beating of his heart. The women are cheering now — they clearly know the song. He doesn’t. It doesn’t sound like anything that’s been playing on the radio in the last two years, and he hadn’t listened to any English songs before coming to America.

He starts off slow, rolling his hips, sinking to his knees as the electric guitars and drums come in proper. Arching, writhing, rolling down onto his belly and then onto his back, lifts his hips up into the air, back arched, flips gracefully over his own shoulders and into a split.

The thrilled screams from the women gathered around the stage make him grin, make him kick his back leg up and arch his back to touch his toes to his crown on an accent. The screaming intensifies as he winks on the introduction of the vocals, rolling over smooth onto his belly, pushing up onto his knees— gripping the pole and swinging his outside leg, letting the momentum carry him up around around as he _lifts_ off his feet into a tucked spin— landing catlike on his feet. He blows a kiss to the men in the back, wouldn’t do to let them feel neglected, and begins the dance in earnest.

When the song ends, he slips off the stage and walks right into the gaggle of laughing ladies. One of them slips a finger into the ring of the collar he’s wearing and tugs him down into her lap. He scores his first dance with the bride-to-be, his second with the maid of honour, then manages to lure them into buying a bottle of tequila to replace the spilled wine. He leaves them with a little waggle of his fingers and a sly smirk as the next dancer comes on stage to distract them, struts towards the bar— and is immediately pulled in by a couple of men in suits.

Eros purrs at the tug of his collar, but there’s a small disgruntled voice speaking from the back of his brain, making a mental note to avoid collars with rings in the future. Eros may like it, but _Yuuri_ does not appreciate being handled like an animal.

At the end of his shift, Yuuri sits in the dressing room and counts out his earnings for the night. He notes with a thrill that he’s made over six hundred dollars. That’s not _at all_ bad for a weekday night. He counts out the money for house fees, then tips. He makes sure to count out the extra that Phichit had advised him to tip out.

That done, he wipes his make up off and pops his contacts out, replacing it with his glasses. He pulls his joggers and hoodie back on before he heads back out into the main room of the club. The waitstaff are sweeping up, bouncers carrying some chairs from an upstairs function back into the storeroom. Cathy is walking around and calling out directions while a bartender counts money from the till. There are dancers mingling, tipping out the staff, some still in costume and some in their street clothes, one of whom he catches by the elbow to thank for throwing him her bottle of grip aid before he’d gotten up on the stage. He’s talking a little too much, he can tell. He’s still running high on endorphins from dancing all night.

When he tips Cathy, her eyebrows rise up almost to her hairline.

“I didn’t think you had made that much tonight,” she comments, and he laughs.

“I didn’t,” he admits, sounding _way_ bubblier than usual. The drinks his last few customers had bought him were also likely loosening his lips. “But it’s my first night, and everyone has been so good to me. I’m just thankful, you know?”

“Oh?” Cathy says.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “At my old club, the bouncers would just let customers grab me all over, you know, even if I told them I didn’t like customers touching me like that. The manager was always harassing dancers, like, propositioning them, asking for sexual favours, making really uncomfortable comments — even full on groping them. I think I had a better time of it because I’m male. One of the dancers told me a customer put a finger in her, and the bouncer just pretended not to see even though she grabbed his wrist and tried to pull it out. I’ve been groped and slapped, of course, and once, a customer tried to push my face into his crotch, but no one’s ever tried to—“

He cuts himself off there. Cathy’s mouth is slightly open.

“Sorry,” he blurts, mortified, “I’m running my mouth.”

 _No more drinking on the job,_ he tells himself firmly, _don’t be like otou-san._

There are other staff listening. They are trying to be discreet about it, but he can tell. He can feel himself turning red under the scrutiny.

“What’s your name again?” Cathy asks. She’s rubbing the bridge of her nose like she has a headache or migraine. There’s a stern line to her mouth.

“Yuuri, madam,” he squeaks.

“Yuuri,” she says, and— puts a hand to his cheek? “How old are you again?”

“I’m twenty next month, madam.”

She winces.

“I’ve told you once,” she says, “And I’ll tell you again. You don’t ever— _ever—_ have to let anyone disrespect you like that here, alright? The customer is not always right. _Bratty Catty’s_ respects all dancers. There’s no prejudice here.”

“Right,” he replies, a little confused because he’s already heard this, “Thank you.”

“You’re a great dancer,” Cathy continues, “You’re young, smart, and you’re polite. You deserve better than that, do you hear me?”

“Yes, madam,” he says.

Cathy pats him once on the cheek.

“Good.”

He blinks as she turns to walk away, calling out directions to the bouncers coming down the stairs. Later on —and he isn’t sure if he’s imagining it — the staff all seem a little nicer to him than they had been at the start of his shift. They had already been plenty nice before.

From then on, Cathy always schedules him for a Friday, _and_ a Saturday shift. A _Friday_ and a _Saturday_ shift! After he’d gotten the call with his shift schedule the first time, he’d lain motionless on the living room floor for fifteen minutes, just smiling blankly at the ceiling, until Phichit had walked past with an armful of laundry.

“What…” the younger boy had begun, frowning, “ _are_ you doing?”

Phichit already thinks he’s weird, he consoles himself later, so it doesn’t matter what Yuuri does anymore.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri is a few weeks to twenty the day his pole instructor tilts her head, looking at him consideringly.

“You’re a good dancer,” she tells him, “But you’re not the best _pole_ dancer.”

“Uh,” he says, shirtless and upside down with one leg hooked on the pole. He’d been trying for a good minute to get into the pose she’d made look effortless, twisting back and forth, hooking and unhooking his leg, and gradually sliding down the pole as he’d squirmed so that the back of his head now touches the floor, his whole body curled awkwardly to make up for his lack of height, “I’m sorry.”

She laughs. She has a long Russian name that he still cannot pronounce, but he calls her Ana for short. Ana is in her early forties, though she declines to give her exact age, and has been living in America long enough to pick up a slight American accent. She reminds him of Minako sometimes. She definitely dotes on him like Minako does. She finds him charming, and he’s still not entirely sure how he managed that. He makes it a point not to look his gift horses in the mouth.

“It’s not necessarily bad,” Ana chuckles, “Many good pole dancers are bad dancers, and that’s a lot harder to fix when you don’t naturally have the coordination or musicality to be a good dancer. You’ve got a whole lifetime of classical training behind you though, so all you have to do is build the strength and the muscle memory for the harder moves.”

“Okay,” he says, and takes one hand off the pole, putting it flat on the floor in an attempt to push himself back up the pole — he fails miserably. And now he’s sliding again.

“You’re going to lose all your points on the technical components,” Ana notes cheerfully, and he finally gives his attempt up as his fourth failed attempt, unhooking his leg and letting his hips flop down to the floor. He sighs. He accepts the hand up when it’s offered to him.

“But there’s one very important question you have to answer before we go into all that,” Ana declares, throwing him a bottle of grip aid, “ _Do_ you want to go competitive? I don’t think becoming a pole dancer will necessarily help you bring in more customers.”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“I began stripping because I knew that pole dancing was something I wanted to become good at, to become the—“ he swallows the _best at,_ embarrassed because who was he to even say that when he’s still struggling with the simplest of the advanced moves, and ends lamely with “ _very_ good at.”

Ana smiles, as if she knows what he had been about to say.

“I want to compete,” he says, “and I’d— I’d like to try my best to win.”

 

 

 

He trains, and conditions, and trains, and conditions. The first two weeks of his new training regime, his hands shake and he cannot fully close his fists at the end of each session. His fingers ache throughout the week, right down into the bones of his forearms, especially during the nights when he puts his hands in cold water to wash the dishes.

“You have weak grip,” Ana explains, “We need to fix that.”

She takes spinning pole out of his training, and sets him on static. He hates static with a passion. It’s harder to lever into poses when he isn’t spinning, harder to hold poses. Most of all, he misses the flow of spinning pole, the musicality of it, the sensation of _flight._

As his training progresses, however, he gets used to the dull ache in his lats and shoulders. Apparently, the amount of muscle he’s gained in his lower body from years of ballet isn’t the best asset when doing the more advanced pole moves. Muscle is heavy, and he doesn’t have enough strength in his upper body to lift all that muscle. He’ll be expected to do more upper-body intensive moves for competitions, Ana explains, his competitors will definitely be bringing out their craziest moves.

Ana has him on basics for a good month, just inverts, inverts, and more inverts. She just raises an eyebrow when he reminds her that he’s had his inverts down for months.

“No, you don’t,” she tells him bluntly, “When you’re tired, you don’t invert fully, you don’t pop your hips up high enough, and then you end up hooking your leg too low on the pole. You’re losing height, Yuuri. You can’t afford to lose any height in a choreography. I will refrain from even elaborating further on the quality of your deadlifts.”

She nitpicks, and it annoys him sometimes, but he _loves_ it most of the time. She matches his perfectionism inch for inch.

 _You don’t invert with straight legs when you’re tired_ , she complains, once she’s finally satisfied he’s inverting fully. _Point your toes._ She’s always saying that one. _Arch your back. Don’t look at your chest when you’re upside down, look at the floor. Your free leg is sloppy. You’re not_ breathing, _Yuuri. Don’t hold your breath while going into your deadlifts,Yuuri._ Why _do you shut your eyes on drops, Yuuri? You look terrified. Stop that._

“I _am_ terrified,” he protests on that one, “Drops are _terrifying.”_

 _Control,_ is another of her favourites, once she’s satisfied that he can do a proper static pole routine and allows him to train spinning again, along with  _not enough momentum,_ and  _too much momentum!_

He has a wall of mirrors installed by the pole in his apartment after a session that had just been two solid hours of _bad momentum,_ and _you’re not facing the audience on the accents._ He spends the whole week exploring just how hard to swing into his spins to get different speeds, and gets an approving nod for his efforts in their next session.

He invests in body concealer, which he orders in a panic through Amazon’s overnight shipping the day after training a particularly painful move. He’d had dark bruises down the insides of his thighs, the underneath of his arms, and a particularly dark one on his ankle where he’d misjudged a flip and knocked it on the pole. He’d also had a shift at _Bratty Catty’s_ the day after, and he couldn’t turn up for that covered in bruises.

The week of Skate America, he takes a short break from his training to freak out with Phichit over the live broadcast. Viktor breaks the 110-point mark on _In Regards to Love: Eros_ for the first time, and easily smashes the 200-point mark on _Stay Close To Me._ There are some promising new skaters, amongst them a fifteen-year-old Mila Babicheva, who is making her senior debut in the women’s singles, where he watches Sara Crispino curb-stomp the competition to stand at the top of the podium, Babicheva taking a respectable bronze. If he trusts that Perez Hilton article, he’s supposed to have met Crispino, but he doesn’t recognise her face at all, which speaks to the sheer level of _drunk_ he’d been that night. In the men’s singles, a Canadian skater and a Kazakhstani skater are also making their senior debuts. Neither of them medal.

 

 

 

 **_Melanie Nikiforov_ ** _@myhusbandviktor09 . 2h  
_ _idk if it’s just me, but did viktor’s rendition of stammi vicino seem a little more… forlorn this time?_

 **_Why Sala_ ** _@skatefangoldskate . 2h  
_ _@myhusbandviktor09_ _Definitely not just you. I was just commenting on it to my sister while watching the Skate America live broadcast. New interpretation? I wonder what brought that about._

 ** _Vik GC_** _@vicchris_4eva . 1h  
__@myhusbandviktor09_ _@skatefangoldskate_ _HEARTBREAK. (chris was been spotted hanging out with a mystery older man at the cup of china. who is he? has chris found himself a sugar daddy?)_

 **_Why Sala_ ** _@skatefangoldskate . 1h  
_ _@vicchris_4eva_ _Omg, can you not be a perv?_

 **_Christophe Giacometti_ ** _@christophe-gc . 22m  
_ _@vicchris_4eva_ _actually, he is just a member of the swiss skating federation_

 **_Vik GC_ ** _@vicchris_4eva . 4s  
_ _holy. fucking. shit. the real christophe giacometti just replied to one of my tweets. my life is complete. i can die in peace now._

 

  
****

**phichit+chu**

[A young man with black hair sleeping belly-down on the floor, face turned away from the camera, one hand still in a half-finished bowl of popcorn. Phichit’s face in the corner, hand over his mouth as if scandalised.]

Liked by **christophe-gc** , **icequeenyuuko** , and **109 others  
** #skateamerica with the #bf (#bestfriend) @katsuki-yuri. #gpseries2009 #skating #cute

_View all 21 comments_

**_icequeenyuuko_ ** 睡眠は十分とっていますか, 勇利君 _?  
_**_icequeenyuuko_** お大事にください。

 

 

 

The next day, Yuuri returns diligently to his training. There is a regional competition happening in Los Angeles the day after his birthday, which is in two weeks, and he is definitely planning to win it. Phichit stretches with him in the mornings before he heads off to the rink. He’s been training as hard as Yuuri for the Junior Grand Prix Finals in December, just a few days after Yuuri’s competition, and morning stretches are the one time he allows himself to browse social media during the day now. Yuuri doesn’t quite understand Phichit’s social media addiction. He doesn’t really use it himself. He has an Instagram profile that Phichit had forced him to create, which has a grand total of two posts, and a Twitter account that he doesn’t use at all. Despite that, he lets Phichit have his morning social media fix without comment.

 _Hey,_ Phichit says during one of their morning stretches, _Did you see this?_ _Some paparazzi photographed Viktor Nikiforov coming out of a strip club downtown with Georgi Popovich. Does the building look like your old strip club to you?_

He holds his phone out to Yuuri, but Yuuri isn’t wearing his glasses so all he sees when he comes out of his back stretch is a shapeless blob of silver against a dark grey backdrop.

Phichit’s tone turns slightly teasing.

_Maybe he was looking for you._

Yuuri arches back over his stack of foam blocks, sinking into it, and groans as he feels his upper back crack satisfyingly.

 _I highly doubt it,_ he says.

Later on, he tries to look for the picture, only to find that the article had been taken down. Apparently, Viktor’s coach had complained about it, and the site had capitulated and removed it on the man’s request. Yuuri shrugs, and puts the whole matter out of his mind.

His twentieth birthday passes a few days later. Phichit presents him with a ticket to the Grand Prix Finals, which will be in Tokyo in a week.

 _It’s the first time a Thai skater is skating in an international skating competition,_ Phichit explains, _so the Thai Skating Association gave me one ticket for a family member. My parents already bought tickets._

 _What about your siblings then?_ Yuuri asks, touched but also a little embarrassed, _I can’t possibly accept this._

 _I have four little sisters and two little brothers,_ Phichit deadpans, _I can’t give the ticket to one of them and expect the other five to take it lying down. There’ll be blood, Yuuri._ Blood. _You have to accept it. Think of my little sister. She’s like, three years old. She’s too young to witness World War III._

Yuuri books a last minute flight to Tokyo that night. He has national qualifiers in three weeks, but he promises Ana that he’ll find a studio to practice at while he’s in Tokyo. Ana drives him down to the hotel where the regionals will be taking place the next day. He’s nervous of course, but he tries his best to push his nerves aside, tries his best to slip into the same headspace that he does when he’s stripping. He’s dancing to the very first song he’d danced to at _Bratty Catty’s._

Ana gets him into his costume, does his hair and make-up, and sits beside him the whole time. Water. Tape to keep his costume in place. Hair spray. She wordlessly hands them all to him, one at a time, before he can even think to ask. Right before he’s set to go up on stage, she produces a bottle of grip aid from the bag. He thanks God, Jesus, and every other deity he can think of for Ana.

Here is a fact: Yuuri is twenty years old the day that he wins first place at his first pole competition. Here’s another: He blows the competition so far out of the water that shaky phone videos of his performance soon begin popping up on YouTube. Phichit diligently shares every one of them on his Twitter. There’s a photo he takes of Yuuri, all made up and laid out on the sofa in his costume, passed out in exhaustion— that he posts on Instagram. It gets so many likes that thinking about the number makes Yuuri feel faintly dizzy.

Two days later, Yuuri boards the first flight to Tokyo.

 

* * *

 

**phichit+chu**

[A young man with black hair and blue frame glasses peering over the top of an economy class airplane seat. Phichit in the foreground, winking. He is holding the end of a selfie stick.]

Liked by **sukeota3sisters** , **+guanghongji+** , and **182 others  
** on our way to the #jgp with @katsuki-yuri. #gpf here we come. wish me luck! #skating #economy #japan

 _View all 56 comments_  
**_sala-crispino_ ** _is that yuri? he’s coming to the gpf??  
_ **_christophe-gc_ ** _oh yuri, my yuri!_

 

 

 

They land in the evening. Phichit goes straight to the hotel, flops face down into bed, and falls straight asleep. He doesn’t sleep well on flights, and the fourteen hour flight had taken its toll on him. Yuuri sets his bag down and helps Phichit’s coach, Ciao Ciao, order room service before he sets out into the Tokyo night.

He finds a pole studio within walking distance, where an open level class has just started. He quickly signs up for it and joins the warm up in the middle of their jumping jacks. It’s not a particularly comprehensive warm up, but then again, it’s not a very intensive class. As the rest of the class start practicing independently, occasionally assisted by the instructor, Yuuri extends his warm up.

“And what are you planning to practice today?” the sound of his mother tongue hits him somewhere deep, “You’re new here aren’t you?”

“I’m going to practice a routine, is that okay?”

“Sure,” she says.

“Could you help me set one of the poles to static, please?”

She goes to retrieve the key, and clicks one of the poles in the corner to static. As she leaves him to spot a young lady’s Ayesha, he sets up his phone in the corner to video with the tiny phone tripod he’d borrowed from Phichit and runs through his routine once, before sitting down to watch the video. The jump-on into the flag is not as smooth as he’d like.

He runs through the jump-on a few times until it’s smooth, then puts it back into routine, videos that and watches it again. He can see himself struggle visibly with the deadlift in the second half of the routine, and eventually turn into the ascent with bent legs. He grips the pole, arms wide, lifts his feet off, and then does the deadlift exercises Ana had set for him. Pike up, straddle down, straddle up, pike down. Pike up, straddle down, straddle up, pike down. Again and again until he can no longer hold his form.

His arms and abs are trembling by the end of it, so he shakes it out, and works on the flow of his spins and floor work. This is his bit of indulgence. Ana tells him his spins and floor work are fine, and that it’s his lifts that need work, but this is the part of his routines that he enjoys the most.

“You’re very good,” the instructor says from behind him, “Have you considered going competitive?”

Yuuri smiles shyly.

“I’m making my debut soon,” he admits, “I’m preparing for the national qualifiers.”

 _“Sugoi!”_ the instructor cries delightedly, clapping her hands a little excitedly, “You’re planning to go international?”

“If I’m good enough to make it,” Yuuri replies modestly.

“I’d love to see more people representing Japan for pole.”

He cools down with a set of flexibility exercises, before packing up and returning to the hotel. He collapses into bed after showering.

The next day, he skips the opening ceremony to train, but the day after that he goes with Phichit to the stadium for the junior men’s short program. Phichit isn’t one for nerves. On the contrary, he’s all but vibrating with excitement. There are times that Yuuri is almost jealous of how well he handles performing. He sits with Phichit and his parents until it’s time for Phichit to go.

His best friend skates to _[One Jump Ahead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZNlbt51dB7k) _ from _Aladdin_ , high energy and mischievous, and receives a standing ovation even though he had fallen at the end of his double lutz-double toe combination. He had nailed the triple axel, the hardest jump in his short program. Phichit’s parents drag Yuuri with them to wait at the kiss and cry as Phichit is coming off the ice.

“Yuuri!” he’s cheering as he comes tottering over in his skates, “Did you see that triple axel, Yuuri?” He slings an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, snapping a selfie which Ciao Ciao chides him for ( _this is hardly the right time, Phichit)_ , before sitting down at the kiss and cry to wait for his scores. The score, when it appears, is a pretty good one by Yuuri’s estimate.

They go out for dinner with two other of the Junior Prix skaters after that, an American skater named Leo who is also delaying his senior debut on his coach’s orders, and a fourteen-year-old Chinese skater named Guang Hong. Phichit chatters enthusiastically with them the whole time, and goes right back to sleep upon returning to the hotel. Yuuri doesn’t know how he’s not tempted to know what the press are saying now. He secretly checks on Phichit’s behalf, which is how he finds out that Phichit’s coach’s name _isn’t_ actually Ciao Ciao. It’s Celestino.

The next day is the junior free skate. Phichit skates to the Broadway recording of [_A Whole New World_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=39KCdPu0qkY), grinning and gracious and everything a Disney prince ought to be. He nails every single one of his jumps except the sole quad in his program, a quad toe that he has to step out of to keep on his feet. The rotations are all in. He gets the bonus with a small deduction.

Phichit medals, silver, after a Korean skater the same age as him.

Afterwards, Phichit’s parents head back to the hotel to rest while they stay to watch the senior men’s short program. Phichit has to put his hand on Yuuri’s thigh to stop it from jittering as the announcer calls for the senior skaters— he’s _that_ excited.

 _“Keep your crush on the down low, Yuuri,”_ he stage-whispers, and Yuuri turns bright red, _“Play it cool!”_

“I do _not—“_

He falls silent as the skaters file into the rink for the warm up. Phichit’s hand tightens to a claw around his thigh, and when Yuuri turns to look, he looks like he’s _ascended_. There is just such a look of awed delight in his eyes as he holds his phone up to his face, clearly videoing this for his followers. On the other side of Phichit, Leo is tugging distressedly at his sleeve, and Guang Hong looks to be hyperventilating.

“We’ve made it,” Leo whimpers, “We just skated on the same ice as the likes of _Viktor Nikiforov_ and _Christophe Giacometti.”_

 _“Cao Bin,”_ Guang Hong wheezes.

 _“Be quiet if you don’t want your sobbing to be uploaded to Twitter,”_ Phichit hisses.

Viktor skates last— throughout the entire event, Yuuri’s leg begins to bounce quicker and quicker. He enjoys Christophe’s program, had found Georgi’s entertaining if a little heavy-handed and overdramatic, but that’s not what he’s here for. He goes utterly still when Viktor’s name is called and he skates out onto the ice, arms gently aloft, his long silver hair whipping after him like fairy dust.

The music begins, passionate violins and sharp guitars, and he forgets to breathe as Viktor _throws_ himself into the program with a wicked grin and a little wink to the judges.

At the end of it, it takes a moment for Yuuri to realise that he’s stood up somewhere along the way, because the entire stadium is on its feet. Viktor rises from a deep bow, breathing heavily and grinning from ear to ear, and skates over to the kiss and cry. Flowers are raining down from the stand. A loose blossom lands in his silver hair, but he does not notice, and the entire side of the stadium closest to him — where all the Viktor Nikiforov banners are fluttering madly — erupts in screams.

He breaks the world record again.

 

 

 

Later on, the junior skaters rush into the exit hallway to beg for autographs while Yuuri hangs back. It’s crowded, so he doesn’t think much about the person brushing against his shoulder until he feels a hand firmly groping his ass.

He immediately reaches back and grabs the perpetrator by the wrist, turning around.

It’s Chris.

“Yuuri!” he cries, pouting, “I can’t believe you went out for dinner with a bunch of skaters yesterday — and forgot to invite me!”

Yuuri lets go of Chris’ wrist.

“Chris,” he says, and smiles a little indulgently, “You haven’t changed much.”

He’s still Chris. Flamboyant and melodramatic and just a little extra.

“And you’ve changed plenty. You look good, Yuuri.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a sudden swell of shrill screaming. Christophe peers up over the top of the crowd curiously.

“It’s Viktor,” he says, “Time to make my escape while everyone is distracted.” He turns back to Yuuri, “Quick! Give me your phone!”

Yuuri blinks.

“My _phone?”_ he repeats, “What for?”

Christophe fishes Yuuri’s phone out of the front pocket of his jacket— _rude!_ and begins to key in something quickly into it.

“I follow you on Instagram, but you don’t post _anything,”_ he’s complaining, _“_ I started following that Thai junior skater because he posts more about you than you do. Don’t you think you ought to do something about that?”

“Uhm,” Yuuri says.

Chris quickly gives himself a missed call before slotting the phone back into Yuuri’s pocket. He watches Chris briskly save his number as _Uh, Yuuri —_ god _damn it,_ Chris, that does sound like something Yuuri would say — before he waggles his fingers in farewell and slips discreetly into the crowd of screaming girls.

“Call me!” he says, and blows a kiss.

With a sigh, Yuuri joins the fray. He’d better find Phichit before they get separated in this madhouse. Luckily, the long aluminium length of Phichit’s trusty selfie stick is like a beacon from a lighthouse, and he pivots dutifully towards it. He finds them taking a selfie with some fans, Phichit holding his medal up and making a duck face while Leo and Guang Hong drape themselves over him holding their hands up in victory signs. Typical. He hangs back a little to avoid photo bombing, but turns curiously as a wave of titters roll over the crowd.

Silver jumps out at him over the heads of the crowd, above the blue, white, and red of the Russian national team jacket. It’s Viktor. Someone has braided the flowers from his short program into his hair, and from up close, Yuuri can see the glitter dusted high over his cheekbones and the lids of his eyes. His eyes are even bluer than Yuuri remembers.

He turns suddenly, gaze meeting Yuuri’s.

There’s a long moment that they stare at each other silently across the tumultuous sea of tittering and giggling fangirls, the harried looking reporters and event photographers.

Then, Viktor smiles dazzlingly, teeth white enough to light up an entire room, and holds a hand out to him.

“A commemorative photo?” he winks, “Sure!”

That smile is nothing like the small, private, artless little things he’d shared with Yuuri in the dark and dim of that VIP room, and in that moment, Yuuri _knows._

Viktor does not remember who he is.

A moment of kindness that had turned Yuuri’s whole life around, that had irrevocably changed the orbit of his life and set it on course for something bigger than himself, for a dream so big that he cannot even begin to imagine bearing it on his own— but of course, _of course_  Viktor does not remember that. Yuuri had just been a stripper, young and pitiful and down on his luck, who Viktor had met once at a club on a night out. A stripper he’d been so kind as to help in the trench of his lowest possible moment, degraded and humiliated and stepped on— but just another passing face, nevertheless, leaving no imprint on his life, just like every other person in the space between them that seems to stretch out wider and wider until there are galaxies, universes between them— just like every other person now shrieking and clamouring for Viktor’s attention.

Yuuri feels abruptly sick. He grasps desperately for the last fraying threads of a persona— _any_ persona— and manages to smile politely in response to Viktor’s question. The smile feels unnatural on his face, probably looks as awkward as it feels, and the words he tries to summon gets caught in his chest and forgotten. He gives up on speaking.

Lowering his eyes, Yuuri turns and walks away.

 

 

 

Here’s a fact: Yuuri is twenty years old the day he has his heart broken for the first time.

Here’s another: He takes his broken heart, and he makes it into art.

 

 

 

**Qualifiers for the International Pole Sport Championships (Men’s Division)**  

AUSTRALIA: Matthew Shields

BRAZIL: Carlos França

…

JAPAN: Katsuki Yuuri

…

UKRAINE: Alex Shchukin

VENEZUELA: Gregorys Garcia

 

 

 

At the end of December, he tunes in to the Russian Nationals with Phichit. When Viktor steps out into the stadium, there’s a moment of silence — before the entire stadium erupts into a roar as everyone in the audience struggles to talk and be heard over the din. The commentators are speaking in rapid-fire Russian that neither he nor Phichit can understand, but he can guess what they are discussing so agitatedly.

Viktor has taken his signature silver locks, and he’s _shorn it all off._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the 2009 - 2010 skating season, the Cup of China and Rostelecom Cup took place in October, which is when Viktor debuts _In Regards to Love: Eros_ and _Stammi Vicino_ , and Skate America (his second qualifier) took place mid-November. The GPF took place in Tokyo in the first few days of December, and the Russian Championships at the very end of December.
> 
> There is no International Pole Sport Championships. There _is_ the International Pole Championships (organized by the IPDFA) and the World Pole Sports Championships (organized by the IPSF) though. The pole competition timeline is entirely made up because I do not actually know, and there's no neatly compiled information on it.
> 
> With regards to Yuuri's experience at his old club: In my previous info dump, I talked about the clear line between stripping and prostitution, but that's an ideal. In reality, there are lots of really shitty clubs where strippers are exploited, molested, sexually harassed, or even sexually assaulted. I couldn't bear to subject Yuuri to that, and he's in a much better club now, but I still wanted to address the reality of the situation.
> 
> One last thing! All the people listed in that qualifiers list are real male competitors who've qualified for internationals in the past (just maybe not in 2010). If you want to watch a pole routine that combines amazing strength, excellent floor work, and _phenomenal_ presentation, the first video I always make people watch is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgv8VtsqnjI) of Alex Shchukin, which won him the title of the first ever Mr. Pole Dance in 2013. He makes the best expressions and he is an amazing dancer. If you want to experience more jaw-droppingly good pole dancing, GO AND BROWSE THE VIDEOS ON BENDY KATE'S INSTAGRAM.


	3. someone save minami from the force of his own excitement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This honestly dragged on to be a longer chapter than expected. It got a little dark at some point, but I really wanted to end the chapter on an uplifting note, so... it dragged. Hope you guys don't mind the length, and I'm really sorry for the long wait. I hope there are still people out there who are interested in reading this?
> 
> Either way, thank you everyone for the kind comments. It's really cool to see so many people showing an interest in pole. I think someone boosted this fic on Tumblr as well so thank you so much to that person!
> 
> That said, I believe that some warnings are in order. There will be allusions to disordered eating, anxiety, and depression. I may not explicitly say "Yuuri is depressed" anywhere in the chapter, but he's definitely depressed, and the chapter includes a lot of his self-hatred, self-destructiveness, and also contains thoughts that are characteristic of disordered eating. So if you find any of that potentially triggering, continue onwards with caution.
> 
> When you're done, please do leave a comment telling me what you think!

Fishnets and smoky eyes. Black platformed heels click across the stage. A man sways drunkenly in the front row, laughing, toppling his glass of beer as he leans forward with a fifty dollar bill. Intoxicated fingers scrabble for the waistband of his thong. Eros laughs— tips his head back and thrusts his hips forward in a slow roll. A woman sticks two fingers between her lips and whistles shrilly.

Later, he sits facing the dressing room mirror, his eyes glinting darkly in the dim light. He sheds Eros in the layers of his costume, in the blackened cotton pads he draws over his eyes and his lips, in the heels lying abandoned by his shoe bag. He blinks once, twice. Yuuri returns slowly to him.

 

* * *

  

The train rattles dully around him. He sits with his earphones plugged in, listening to the roaring guitars of his competition music. He’s listened to it so much that he barely registers the melody as anything more than background noise. When he listens to it now, he sees only the motions, feels only the movements swelling uncontrollably up underneath his skin when he’s still. At this point, it’s pure muscle memory. He hears the music, and his body moves, like a puppet on strings.

He gets off at the correct station like clockwork, and walks down the darkened street to his studio, neon lights flickering overhead. Ana looks up with a frown when the bell tinkles over the doorway.

“Here again?” she asks, and shakes her head, “There are such days as rest days. You know that, don’t you?”

Yuuri huffs out an uneasy laugh.

“Not with the finals so close,” he says.

He strips off his street clothes, throws it in a locker, and heads into an empty studio to practice. His body protests the abuse, but when he turns on the music— it obeys. Ana watches him through the glass wall of the studio, fingers tapping against the front counter. Her eyes are unreadable.

“Don’t come tomorrow,” she says when he leaves, “Take a rest day.”

Yuuri shrugs.

He spends the next day practicing at home.

 

 

 

**Dramatic Celebrity Makeovers: Viktor Nikiforov, Yea or Nay?**

So far in our Dramatic Celebrity Makeover Series, we’ve covered makeovers as dramatic as Nicki Minaj’s bubblegum pink transformation into stardom, to the more everyday hairdo-overs, like Emma Stone’s decision to go blonde for the _Spider-Man_ reboot. Today, however, we’re taking a little detour from Hollywood into the land of sports— more precisely, into men’s figure skating, so fasten your seat-belts!

In men’s figure skating, there is none so promising as Viktor Nikiforov. Nikiforov rose quickly to prominence in juniors skating, winning gold after gold. His senior debut, at sixteen, was the most anticipated since Russian skating legend, Evgeni Plushenko’s. Despite a disappointing performance in the Grand Prix series, he curb-stomped his competition at the Russian Nationals, and went on to win his first ever World Champion title at the end of his senior debut, breaking two world records in the process. Since then, he has been a familiar face on figure skating podiums— usually at the top of it. He has been unrivalled since Plushenko’s retirement, and is the current favourite for the title of Olympic Champion for the coming Winter Games.

[A sixteen-year-old Viktor Nikiforov at the top of the podium, wearing a wreath of blue roses and carrying a bouquet of tulips.]

Many a heart has been set aflutter by Nikiforov’s large blue eyes and endless silver lashes. His long hair has earned him a starring role in countless haircare ads, and has come to be known as a Nikiforov trademark. Indeed, Nikiforov has effortlessly straddled the boundary of androgyny into adulthood, transforming from sweet naivety to effeminate flirtation. That was why his sudden change of style sent shock-waves through the scene last month, when he turned up at the Russian Nationals sans his signature silver locks. Fans were quick to comment on the change, though reactions were mixed.

  
****

**_Why Sala_ ** _@skatefangoldskate . 3d  
_ _I understand being stressed out over this season, like the Olympics don’t come every year but still… Isn’t this a little bit too much? He looked better with long hair._

 **_Nicky_ ** _@ vickynickyforov . 3d  
_ _guys seriously just chill the fuck out. if the dude wants to cut his hair, then so be it. honestly, it’s been a long time coming. he’s not a kid anymore. it suits his new suave playboy brand._

 **_Melanie Nikiforov_ ** _@myhusbandviktor09 . 2h  
_ _oH SWEET JESUS. BLESS OUR SOULS. HOW DID HE GET EVEN HOTTER?_

 

For your viewing pleasure, this is Nikiforov’s new do. We did not expect to like it, but damn can we appreciate a good-looking man when we see one! What say you about Nikiforov’s new aesthetic? Yea or Nay? Vote in the comments down below!

[A short-haired Viktor sitting bent over in the stands at the Russian Nationals, elbows on his knees, a drawn look on his face.]

 

15 January 2010

  

 

**phichit+chu**

hey, i know we haven’t really spoken before but

i was wondering

is viktor okay?

he looked a little off at the nationals

 

**christophe-gc**

bonjour

you’re one of the junior skaters, aren’t you?

it’s nice to finally talk to you

viktor is okay

he’s working through some personal things

but he’ll be okay

thanks for the concern

you’re yuuri’s friend right?

 

**phichit+chu**

yes

he said you gave him your number at the GPF :P

 

**christophe-gc**

yes haha

is yuuri okay?

he looked like he lost weight

in the last photo you posted of him

 

 

**phichit+chu**

…

he’s working through some personal things

he’s very

stubborn sometimes

but i’m sure he will be alright

i’ll be here for him

 

 

“Yuuri~!” Phichit sings from the doorway, “Yuu~ri! Weren’t we going for dinner?”

Yuuri barely hears him. He gives an absent nod, but his eyes are still fixed on the screen of his laptop. On it, a young lithe man swings deftly around a static pole, flinging himself off it and into a backflip at the crest of it. Yuuri winces as he lands on the stage in a neat crouch. This man is one of the finalists. Yuuri will be seeing him in less than two months’ time.

Tan fingers curl over the top of his screen, pushing it insistently down. Phichit’s pouting face comes into view. He’s wearing a beanie, and a black shirt with ‘ **THE SEXY FACE’** printed boldly over his chest. Underneath it, in smaller script: Never Stop Studying TM.

Yuuri does not get the reference. At all.

“Yuuri,” he says disapprovingly, “We were _supposed_ to go out for dinner, remember? You promised you’d take me to try that Japanese diner you’re always raving about.”

It takes him a moment to remember which diner Phichit is talking about. He hasn’t been there in awhile. Hell, he hasn’t eaten out in _three months_.

“Can I,” he begins weakly, “Finish watching this first?”

Phichit seems to consider his request.

“Well, that depends on what you’re watching,” he eventually decides, and then cocks his head to one side, “Is it porn?”

Yuuri splutters.

“What?!” he yelps, “ _No!”_

Phichit jumps to his feet, beaming, and tries to _pull_ Yuuri up with him. A sharp tinge goes through his shoulder blade. He _gasps._

Phichit lets go immediately.

When Yuuri looks up at him, there’s this _look_ on his face, open and worried, but it’s gone in an instant.

“Then it can wait till after dinner!” he declares, before his entire face transforms into an _unfair_ pout, “Come _on,_ Yuuri. I’m _hungry._ Let’s _go.”_

Yuuri winces at the plaintive tone in his voice and the awful, wide-eyed and wobbly-lipped expression on his face. Phichit doesn’t play fair. And so he surrenders himself over to his housemate’s whims and docilely allows himself to be pushed out of the room. He grabs his duffle bag on the way out; he has a shift at Bratty Catty’s after dinner.

As they walk to the bus stop, Phichit chatters away about something or another. Yuuri thinks that he may be talking about some new meme he found on Reddit. He’s not too sure. He doesn’t concentrate very well these days. His mind keeps going back to the videos he’s been watching of his competitors, or to his last practice session, or to the exercises he’s been wanting to try to help perfect a more difficult move.

In the midst of those thoughts, the flash of a video he’d recently seen comes back to him— the perfectly controlled motion of a competitor _twisting_ up and _over_ , straight-legged, into a dead-lift. It’s like a punch to the gut, like his ribs are suddenly too small for his lungs.

 _I can’t do that,_ he thinks, _I’m not strong enough._

And that thought is debilitating.

“Ah,” Phichit pipes up right then, “Is _this_ the place?”

He looks up, still feeling a little ill, to a familiar shop sign. He had used to eat here quite regularly, but that had stopped when he’d stopped eating out.

“Yes,” he says weakly.

The small shop is crowded, the chairs and tables pushed as close as possible to one another and all of them full. They sit at the counter, squished shoulder to shoulder. There’s a hook underneath it for their coats and bags. Yuuri can’t help the wince as he gingerly twists his right arm out of his coat.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Phichit asks casually, as he plucks a menu from its holder. He opens it, pauses, then closes it again. He’d picked up the Japanese menu.

“I think I strained my shoulder blade last week,” Yuuri admits, “But it’s nothing big.”

Phichit reaches over and carefully palms the firm muscle overlapping his shoulder blade.

“Does it hurt when I touch it?”

“No, it feels like it’s the muscle _underneath_ the bone _._ ”

Phichit makes a face.

“That’s a really weird muscle to strain.”

Yuuri laughs.

“Pole is a weird sport to train.”

The chubby, red-cheeked Japanese lady who owns the store comes over to them. She’s smiling her charming, crinkle-eyed smile, gummy and exposing the gap between her front teeth. She reaches over the counter to pinch Yuuri’s cheek fondly.

“Look at you!” she exclaims in Japanese, “You go and disappear for months and come back looking so handsome. Have you lost weight, Yuuri-kun?”

He chuckles.

“I’m training for a competition,” he replies in Japanese.

“Oh, you’re so lean now,” she observes, squeezing his elbow, “You could afford to eat a little more. Too bony!”

He laughs.

 _“Katsudon_ for you,” she declares, “On the house— no arguments!” and then in accented English, “And this, your friend, what do you want to eat?”

“Whatever Yuuri is having!” Phichit chirps without pause.

She pats Yuuri’s cheek one more time.

“Take care, okay, Yuuri-kun?” she says, before she waddles off towards the kitchen with a shout of _“Katsudon! Two bowls!”_

Phichit immediately turns back to him.

“You should see a physio about that,” he says, nodding meaningfully towards Yuuri’s shoulder.

Yuuri just makes a face.

“I did,” he complains, “He told me to take two weeks off, and to… to _push a wall twenty times a day.”_ He demonstrates the motion that the physiotherapist had shown him, then lets his arm drop. “I don’t _have_ two weeks to push a wall twenty times a day.”

“You should at least take a bit of time off training. When was the last time you had a rest day?”

Yuuri laughs.

“What happened to ‘ _I’ll rest when I’m dead’?”_

“It was finals week!” Phichit protests, laughing, then sobers slightly, “And you know that’s different. You shouldn’t be training on an injury, Yuuri.”

“It’s not serious,” he dismisses, “I’m being careful, taking it a little easier. It’ll be fine.”

 _Taking it easier, when you’re already so far behind the competition,_ he can’t help but think. He shakes his head, as if that would clear his thoughts. _No._ He’s determined not to let that ruin his day again. He can afford to celebrate a little. He’s made it this far. He’s made the finals. He hasn’t given himself time to celebrate that yet.

His eyes widen as a heaping bowl of _katsudon_ is set in front of him. He looks up into the owner’s doting smile.

“I told them to give you a little extra,” she whispers cheekily, “Don’t tell anyone!”

His stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten all day and, _god,_ he hasn’t had this in so long. He can’t help but think of his mother. He misses her cooking. He misses her warmth. This may come close, but it isn’t the same. But still, he supposes it’s the best he can get so far away from home. The thought makes him strangely melancholy, and that confuses him. Why is he getting upset so suddenly?

“Oh my god,” Phichit moans through a mouthful of rice, “What _is_ this? It’s _amazing?”_

He makes his best attempt to shake off the sudden melancholy, and digs in.

 

* * *

 

He and Phichit part ways after dinner. Phichit heads home, and he goes for his shift. In the dressing room, two of the other strippers are getting ready. A huge, muscled young man sits in front of the vanity, dusting on a thin layer of bronzer over his collarbones, his pecs, his abs. Behind him, a woman with short-cropped hair is stepping into her heels with one hand on the back of his chair.

“I ate too much,” she’s complaining, “I swear it was a squeeze to get into my costume. My girlfriend brought me to the all-you-can-eat down the road and there was a forty dollar charge if you had leftovers. _Forty._ Hah. Never doing that again.”

He just grunts absently in response. She runs one tattooed hand over the shaved side of her head, before she catches sight of Yuuri. She grins disarmingly at him, her lip piercings flashing.

“Pole-dancing really doesn’t mesh well with binge-eating, does it, Yuuri?” she laments.

The guilt hits him immediately.

Suddenly, the weight of a full meal sitting heavy in his stomach doesn’t feel satisfying as much as it makes him nauseous. The numbers run uncontrollably through his head. One bowl of rice is about two hundred calories, but that had been a pretty big bowl of rice, so probably three hundred. A pork cutlet is another four hundred calories. The eggs, the onions, easily another two hundred. That’s without the broth, the sauce, the _dashi._ He feels abruptly like throwing up. That’s easily a thousand calories.

Then there was the miso soup, and the ice lemon tea that he’d helped Phichit finish. He’d had a mint before coming in to get the smell of food off his breath. Probably a thousand two hundred calories then. That’s more than _half of his daily calorie count._ He can’t afford that. If he puts on any weight… he doesn’t have the upper body strength to support that. He just doesn’t. God, he’s supposed to be _losing_ weight.

“Yuuri?” she’s waving a hand in front of his face now, smiling kindly when his eyes snap to her, “Food coma? God knows I get _so_ sleepy after a big meal. Like, just do _not_ talk to me. I won’t understand a word.”

He feels like he’s going to be sick.

Later on, the DJ calls him up. When he lifts gingerly into a spin, dread fills him when his shoulder tinges. _I’m too heavy,_ he thinks frantically, _I’m not strong enough._

A shrill whistle from a young man sitting on his left.

Eros comes jerkily back over him, washing Yuuri’s anxieties away.

 

* * *

 

‘Slow motion run-through of the flip now and— right there! Now, _that_ is perfection.’

‘Nikiforov never fails to deliver on perfect height and perfect rotation. His quads are _unmatched_. _’_

‘His choreography, his musicality— I had worried for awhile that he’d lost that. The last season’s choreography had been… disappointing, to say the least, though I admit that it had _definitely_ been technically challenging. It certainly bagged a high enough TES to continue his winning streak.’

‘A change of focus? I heard rumours that he’d been working for a quad axel that season.’

‘Possibly. If so, it was a change for the better. Forget about the quads, just for a moment, and see if the musicality remains. That’s the mark of a true artist, isn’t it?’

‘The king has definitely returned… and yet— he doesn’t look very happy, does he? Look at him sitting there now with his coach in the kiss-and-cry. What is _up_ with that?’

‘He _has_ been looking a little worse for the wear lately, hasn’t he?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say it’s unexpected. With the Olympics at the end of the season, who wouldn’t feel the pressure? It’s just a matter of who’s going to crash and burn from the stress.’

‘Oh— and there we go. The crowd goes wild. Look at that _score_. If he didn’t already have it after yesterday’s short program, he’s _definitely_ got the Europeans in the bag now.’

 

* * *

 

Distant music from the stage. The bass throbs, deep and rhythmic. The rest of his competitor’s choice in song is lost to the soundproofing. Yuuri sits alone in the dressing room— dark-eyed, long-lashed, nude-lipped, black costume hugging his hips snugly as he watches a live-stream of Viktor Nikiforov descending from the kiss-and-cry. On the small screen of his phone, Viktor passes the camera-man without a second glance.

 _Forgettable,_ something hisses deep inside, _you weren’t worth his attention._

 _Shut up,_ he tells it.

He knows now that what he had thought he’d felt— what feels like years ago, even though it’s only been months— was never love. No, it had only been idol-worship. But that doesn’t change the hurt of being forgotten, of being treated like just— just some _simpering fan_. _Chris_ had remembered him.

His pride flares. _I didn’t make it this far to be disrespected like that._

But it quickly makes way for self doubt.

He sits back in his chair, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. When they had met… what had he been? He had just been a dime-a-dozen, no-name stripper then, so pitiful that he’d warranted a night of kindness, but too pitiful to be remembered afterwards. What is he now? Still a dime-a-dozen, just with a little more of a name, just with a little more earning power. Less pitiful, definitely, but little much else.

Hands on his body. A filthy grin. A wheedling voice pitched sickly sweet.

 _C’mon sugar,_ it says, _I don’t want nuthin’ if it’s higher than fifteen anyways._

His eyes snap back open, and he leans forward over his knees, suddenly furious. The fury at the memory fades slowly but surely into anxiety. How much further has he come from that dark time? Truly, how much further has he come? What has he achieved?

He puts his face in his hands.

_How does he become more than Eros the stripper?_

Muted cheering rises over the deep, throbbing bass. A distant whistle.

 _Win,_ something in him screams, _win, and win, and win._

A knock comes at the door.

He looks up, eyes wide. He still feels raw, vulnerable, like his skin has been abraded off, leaving his nerves bare to the air. He’s strung so tight.

“Katsuki?” someone shouts from the other side of the door, “You’re up in five!”

Footsteps, going away from the door. He’s— he’s up next. Yuuri turns to the mirror, runs a hand feverishly over his powdered face and up into his gelled hair. He closes his eyes and tries to slide into the right head-space, to let Eros take over again. His heartbeat calms a little.

Last stretches. He puts his hands against the wall, pushing his torso down, feeling the stretch in his upper back. Deep breath. He straightens up.

 _I’ve forgotten something, something isn’t right,_ a voice cries.

 _Shhh,_ Eros soothes, _you’re just anxious._

Another knock at the door. He opens the door.

It’s a woman all in black, headphones around her neck, radio at her waist.

Stage-crew.

She cocks her head toward the stage, and he follows.

The MC is saying something, but it’s muted, faraway. He emerges from the wings and into the bright stage-lights. It’s so bright. Why is it so damn bright? He heads straight for the pole and assumes his starting position. The MC is still talking, but he tunes it out to focus on his breathing. Eros settles more firmly over him. A sultry smirk reaches his lips.

Guitars.

He launches into a backflip, the back of his knee catching the pole, but as his hand comes up to catch the pole, the smirk slides right off his face. He goes completely cold.

_Grip aid._

_Quiet,_ Eros snaps.

_You forgot grip aid._

His breath comes short. His chest feels suddenly too small for his heart. He swings up into a deadlift, body moving through the panic by sheer force of muscle memory, and with some horror, his supporting hand _moves._ A small slip, barely noticeable, but the panic is rising fast.

_Calm down._

But it’s a vicious cycle. His palms begin to sweat from the panic and the sensation of his palms slipping, ever so slightly, feeds back into the panic, feeds into the sweat, feeds into the panic. He’s always had sweaty palms. That had always been his number one nemesis during training. _How could he forget grip aid?_

Through the numbness, his body moves to the music like a puppet on strings. The routine comes down to the cold feeling of chrome lining up against the back of his bent thigh, against the curve of his bicep, against his instep here, against the long line of his neck there. A twisted grip slides into an elbow grip as his supporting hand slips— his shoulder blade feels funny, it’s no good, it’s no good— a more difficult move has to be assisted with his ankle.

 _Not strong enough,_ he thinks hysterically, _I’m not strong enough._

Floor-work.

Somehow, he’s almost made it halfway through. Just two minutes to the end.

The panic ebbs slightly as he slides down to the floor, stepping away from the static pole and into a roll, springing up into a one-handed handstand. Sliding, leaping, arching, whirling. A step here, a roll, a flip as the music blares. For a moment, Yuuri almost forgets the horrible mistake he’s made as he cartwheels up onto the other pole, as he soars around it, spinning up, dropping into a knee grip, arching— he turns and levers up into a shoulder mount.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, as his hands slip, but the press of his shoulder against chrome keeps him up.

The panic returns.

 _Almost done,_ he tells himself, closing his eyes tight, _it’s almost over._

He comes down to the floor, strikes a pose as sultrily as he can. He’s a lot further from Eros than he would like at the moment, and the thought of that brings a fresh wave of panic. He smothers it mercilessly. He leaps, takes a long slide across the floor, reaches for the static pole again.

 _Swing hard into it, Yuuri,_ he tells himself, _the momentum will help the grip._

He braces— _swings—_

_Sharp pain._

He cries out.

Feet on the ground. Fingers slipping from the pole.

The music swallows his cry.

One of the judges is on her feet. He catches her eye for a brief moment before he manages to turn over, down, onto the floor, body moving into old floor work through the shock of the pain. He doesn’t look into the audience. He has no idea what expression he’s wearing now. As he comes up onto his feet, he tries, but fails to raise his arm. His legs take him numbly through the first two pirouettes. On the third, his knee buckles.

He lands on one knee, right palm automatically smacking to the floor, hard, to break his fall.

_Agony._

He barely registers the judges’ hand gestures through the pain lancing through his right shoulder. There’s something wrong with it. There’s something _seriously_ wrong with it. His entire arm is weak. Through the red-hot pain, he remembers, suddenly, the protocol on mid-competition injuries. He has ten seconds to get up and continue the routine. But it hurts, it hurts too much. He can’t— he can’t even raise his arm.

The music stops. He can hear the whispering. One of the judges is coming around the table towards him.

He waves her away.

She hesitates, then sits back down.

Through the pain, he manages to stand, to bow, to walk numbly back into the wings, right arm hanging uselessly at his side the whole time. The next finalist is standing in the wings, pale-faced, reaching shakily for him as he approaches.

“Oh my god,” he whispers frantically, “Oh my god, are you okay?”

“My shoulder,” he just says, and he feels cold, cold all over, “My shoulder.”

 

 

 

“You tore your rotator cuff."

Silence.

“Does it hurt when I move your arm like—”

_“Ah!”_

“Mmhm. This here, underneath, is your subscapularis. It holds your shoulder blade in place. How did you injure yourself? Some kind of overhead motion, I presume?”

“I’m a competitive pole-dancer.”

“I see. It’s common for athletes and dancers to get injuries like these during competitive season. Lots of tendency to train on injuries, _despite_ the advice of medical professionals.”

“I— _Yes_. I shouldn’t have—Fuck. _Fuck._ I shouldn’t have done that. _Fuck._ What do I do now?”

“You’ll need surgery. Rotator cuff tears don’t heal well without it, and if you’re going to be returning to competitive sport after your recovery, we don’t want to risk the tear widening.”

“How— how long is the recovery?”

“You’ll be in a sling for four to six weeks, and you ought to start light rehabilitative exercises at the three-month-mark so we’ll say… about six months?”

_“Six months.”_

“It sounds long, I know, but you need to rest the full period, and take your physiotherapist seriously. Some people don’t, and they never regain full range of movement.”

“I— Okay. _Fuck._ Okay.”

 

 

 

If dancing at Bratty Catty’s has given him one thing, it’s given him money. More than anything, he’s thankful for that— thankful that he doesn’t have to call home for money to pay the hospital, to pay for physiotherapy, to pay the bills during his recovery. The mere thought of facing his family now fills him with empty dread. He’s too ashamed to face them. What has he to show? What has he to show for the kind of son he’s turned out to be?

Alone in his room, drugged up with his arm in a sling, he tilts his head back against the headboard and stares up blankly at the ceiling. Six months, he knows, is enough to lose _everything_ he’s worked for. He’s going to have to start all over, and that thought echoes empty in his chest. He sleeps, and hopes that tomorrow it’ll just be a dream. He wakes, and realises its reality. He eats, and the panic rises. He’s always put on weight so easily. Without his usual training regime, what will happen?

He’s tired. A bone-deep tiredness that resonates through his body from deep inside. He’s too tired to be properly anxious, but the anxiety is there at the back of his mind. He needs to move, he needs to train, he needs to— but he can’t, he can’t, _he can’t._

He wakes up, he goes for classes, takes down notes on auto-pilot. He waits for night so that he can sleep to escape the monotony, but when night comes, he dreads waking up the next morning to face the day all over again. Every morning, he lies in bed and dreads the empty prospect of moving through the day.

There’s one Saturday morning he comes out of his room to Ana sitting at the kitchen table, talking to Phichit in low tones. She sits beside him on their saggy couch, and turns on the TV. She’s brought him some yoghurt, organic and sugar-free, mixed in with nuts and fruits.

“But,” he manages to protest weakly, “Yoghurt is high-fat.”

“But it’s healthy,” she says.

That, more than anything, allows him to eat it.

The morning of his first mid-term, he wakes up, stares up at the white ceiling of his room, and realises that he doesn’t have the will to go for it. He turns over and goes back to sleep. That night, he gets an email from his Professor— _I know you’re recovering from surgery so I’ll move the weightage of your missed exam to finals instead. Please study hard for it._ He reads it, and then goes back to sleep.

Mid-terms fly by in a blur. He misses them all, but his professors are strangely understanding. Phichit tries to get him out of the house, to meet new people. There’s one day that Phichit climbs into bed with him and downloads Tinder on his phone.

“Yes,” he says, and “That moustache looks like it died on his face,” and “No,” and “Oh my _god,_ a dog, that’s an auto-yes,” and “Is she serious?” and _“Hamsters— oh my god!”_ and “Cute, but no.”

Yuuri just watches with his chin on Phichit’s shoulder, chuckling here and there.

“Oh my god, what, we matched,” Phichit says at one point, “Oh no, go back, go back, I swiped because of your cat— _and now she’s messaging you, oh please stop.”_

It’s… it’s a pretty good day, all in all. And so, that night, when a Tinder notification comes over his phone, he dares to open it. Phichit is asleep beside him, soft snores purring quietly from his chest, but Yuuri is careful not to let the light wake him. The person who’s messaged him is a platinum-blonde, blue-eyed, pale, and broad-shouldered. Phichit had swiped on him because _oh my god, Yuuri, he’s Viktor Nikiforov’s doppelgänger, oh my god, I’m laughing._

 

 _hey,_ it says, _r u awake?_

 

 _whats up,_ he replies.

 

_nothing. i just thought u were cute._

 

 _you’re not too bad yourself,_ he flirts, emboldened by the compliment

 

 _thanks,_ a pause.

 _so,_ comes the next message, _u pole dance._

 

 _yea,_ he says, _it’s a good way to keep fit._

 

_u definitely look fit._

_flexible too._

_not a lot of guys can stretch like that._

_it’s good tho. makes ur legs look longer._

 

He’s beginning to type out a reply when he notices that the guy is typing too.

He backspaces, and waits.

 

_how bout a private show ;)_

_i think ur legs would look real good over my shoulders._

 

He recoils, blocks the guy, and turns his phone off.His breath is coming quick, chest feeling tight. He clenches his eyes shut but the words are burnt into the back of his eyelids. _i think ur legs would look real good over my shoulders._ Oh god. Is that what people think? When they see him on the pole? Is that what Viktor had thought that night? Was that the source of his friendliness? No wonder he doesn’t remember Yuuri. Was that what Chris thought? Was that what all the other skaters that night thought? Fuck. _Fuck._

The memory comes back to him again. His lowest moment.

 _C’mon sugar._ _I don’t want nuthin’ if it’s higher than fifteen anyways._

He turns his phone back on and looks at his Tinder profile. Phichit had only uploaded five photos of him, in various places, smiling sweetly at the camera. No pole photos. Below, however, his profile is linked to his Instagram account, which he's taken to using to store videos of practice for his own reference. He has only eighty followers, and most of them are just skaters who started following him because of Phichit.

He opens Instagram, frowns.

His follower count has— has _quintupled_. More than quintupled, he now has at least four hundred followers.

 _heard you were disqualified from world pole,_ the most recent comment reads, _damn that’s rough._

 _Fuck,_ he closes his eyes again, _fuck._ Is that why they’re following him? Because they heard about how he screwed up? Who knows? How do they know?

 _damnnnn, honey,_ the next one says, _that body!_

He feels sick. He doesn’t know any of these people. Who are they?

He closes Instagram, deletes it, deletes Tinder, deletes Twitter, deletes Facebook. He has unread messages on WhatsApp, which he uses to contact people outside of the States. He deletes that too. He has emails, he has text messages, he has two missed calls. He turns on airplane mode, pauses, thinks better of it, and takes out the battery instead. He puts that and his phone in the drawer next to his bed— shuts it.

Numbly, he goes into the bathroom and looks at his body in the mirror.

_i think ur legs would look real good over my shoulders._

Oh god.

Phantom hands on his body. His waist, his hips, his thighs. Phantom caresses, all the places drunk hands have slid over his skin. Where hasn’t he let anyone touch? What is he doing? Why did he let them touch him? For attention? For fame? For pride? He has none of that now. Everything he’s worked for has failed and he has nothing. Why did he let them touch him?

He looks at himself in the mirror, _really_ looks.

 _Slut,_ he hisses, into the dark shadows below his eyes, into the hollows of his hipbones, into the curve of his inner thighs where countless hands have brushed— _Slut._

He sits down with his back against the bathtub, and puts his forehead to his knees.

Phichit finds him there in the morning.

  

* * *

 

**PEREZ HILTON: Nikiforov Spotted At Strip-Club With Minor**

It began last year in March, when he skipped the World Championship banquet to schmooze in low-end strip-club, The Prix, with fellow medalist, Christophe Giacometti — and now it’s spiralled out of control. In September, blurry photos of a silver-haired man entering a strip joint emerged on Twitter, coinciding with Nikiforov’s presence in Lake Placid for a Junior Grand Prix event. He had been accompanying his coach, Yakov Feltsman, and junior Russian skater, Yuri Plisetsky— both of whom declined to comment on the photo. Then in November, he was caught again, with fellow Russian skater Georgi Popovich, in Los Angeles’ red-light district. This time, the photos were clear enough that Feltsman demanded they be removed on threat of a defamation suit. The photos were taken down within a week, but by then it was too late. Screenshots of the article were already circulating various social media sites.

And now, mere days from the _biggest sporting event of the year,_ more photos have emerged. As anyone familiar with the sport would know, the Winter Olympics will be beginning in Vancouver in three days. And as if the _previous_ times haven’t been bad enough, this time, Nikiforov’s been spotted with a minor. Yep, the boy with him in the photos is none other than thirteen-year-old Yuri Plisetsky, who will turn fourteen in March.

[A grainy photo of a haggard Viktor Nikiforov in the red-light district of Los Angeles, a scowling Yuri Plisetsky marching stubbornly ahead of him.]

While we can understand needing to work off a bit of (sexual) tension, this is definitely going too far. Celebrities are entitled to their vices, certainly, but leave the kids out of it! On top of it all, rumours have been circling about Nikiforov’s drastic change in appearance. Two months ago, he’d made the unexpected decision to lope off an entire head of hair. That came amidst the weight-loss, the sudden paleness, the eye-bags. It’s been months, but Nikiforov has aged _years._ Stress regarding the upcoming Olympics, say the kinder voices, and then there are the more unkind mutters. Alcoholism, drugs, or possibly steroids gone wrong— speculation is rife.

What say you? What’s the reason behind all this? Stress? Drug-addiction? Or steroids? Tell us what you think in the comments below.

12 February 2010

 

**View more comments…**

Anonymous: cocaine

Anonymous: steroids

Anonymous: no way u don’t look like that from steroids. i say heroin.

Brian Smith:Come on, guys, don’t be trolls. It’s perfectly normal for athletes to start looking a little drawn around Olympics season. It just tells you who can and who can’t handle the pressure.

Melanie Nyugen:oh my god, just shut up everyone. you don’t understand what he’s going through. i’m disappointed perez hilton, though i’m not sure what i expected from a shitty tabloid known for its shitty reporting. this article was unnecessarily mean-spirited.

Cheryl Williams:So it’s okay to corrupt thirteen-year-olds with sex and drugs now? Is that what you’re saying, Melanie?

Anonymous: tbh tho plisetsky looks way more willing to be there than nikiforov

Anonymous: plot twist: plisetsky is the one corrupting nikiforov

Anonymous: omg lmao @ the comments on this article

 

  

 

Phichit comes to him quietly around the four-week mark, and crawls into bed with him.

“The Winter Olympics are in a few days,” he says hopefully, and something about the way he says it makes Yuuri think this isn’t the first time, “Do you want to come and watch me compete for Thailand? The tickets were pretty cheap so I bought you one. If you want to go, I’ll help you book a flight. It’s in Vancouver this year so it’s only two hours away. What do you think?”

He’d come yesterday, and the day before, and last week too. That must have been to tell him about it. Yuuri had been feeling too awful to pay attention to him. He feels abruptly like a jerk. He’s an awful friend. This is Phichit’s big moment and Yuuri— Yuuri’s just been ignoring him. He’s been awful about it, hasn’t he?

He sits up.

“Okay,” he says, “Where’s my laptop? Let’s book the flight.”

 

* * *

 

  

 _“Yuuri!”_ a somewhat familiar voice calls, the moment he steps into the waiting room to look for Phichit.

“Yuuri!”

It’s the two junior skaters he’d met at the Grand Prix. Yes, he remembers them. Leo and Guang Hong, waving from near the TV.

“Yuuri!” and that’s Chris coming toward him with…

Sara Crispino? She’s smiling so wide it looks like it’s going to split her face right in half.

“It’s so good to see you again!” she’s gushing, “How’s your arm?”

“I—“ he begins, completely baffled because… do they know one another? “It’s… good. The sling’s coming off next week.”

“That’s great to hear. There were all these videos of your routine in the quarter- and semi-finals and everyone was so excited. I was so certain you’d place, and then I heard you’d been injured in the finals! It was awful!”

“I—“ he stutters, “Videos? _Everyone?_ Who’s _everyone?”_

Chris laughs his deep laugh.

 _“Yuuri,”_ he chuckles, “Didn’t you know? You were featured on several pole magazines as ‘Most Promising Newcomer’— though, with your dismal social media presence I suppose I’m not _that_ surprised that you don’t know.”

“Pole magazines?”

 _There are pole magazines?_ he thinks to himself. It’s frankly a little surreal.

“Where’s Phichit?” he asks, because he’s still not sure how to process all this.

“Warming up,” Sara Crispino says, waving at the TV screen.

The camera is focused on a little blonde Russian skater. He has his arms crossed, scowling fiercely.

“That’s Yuri Plisetsky,” Chris explains, “He’s grumpy because he’s one year too young to compete. He’s here to watch the other Russian skaters. Viktor’s warming up too. We can go say hi later.”

“I doubt he remembers me,” Yuuri says dryly, and Chris _bursts out laughing._

“Oh, Yuuri,” he gasps, “Oh, _Yuuri!”_

He has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, so he bids the two good luck and goes to sit with Guang Hong and Leo. There’s a young, nervous looking skater sitting with them. He’s so nervous he seems to be vibrating in his seat, hyperventilating, eyes darting towards Yuuri every now and then. Yuuri can’t help but feel sorry for him. He knows the pressure that comes with competition, and this one is the _Olympics._

Suddenly, the boy turns around, flinging himself into a low bow.

 _“Hajimemashita-I-can’t-believe-I’m-meeting-you-here,”_ he says in one breath, all in Japanese.

“I—“ Yuuri begins, “Erm, hello?”

“My-name-is-Minami-Kenjirou,” the boy rattles on, “I’m-a-really-big-fan.”

“Of who?”

Minami looks at him with stars in his eyes.

“Is it true,” he gasps, “That you trained under _Okukawa Minako-san?_ I heard you were accepted to the Tokyo Ballet at seventeen but you turned the offer down. It took a long time but I found— I found _videos_ of your audition. Is it true that you used to skate? Oh my _god,_ maybe in some alternate universe you would have been my _skating-sempai.”_

He unzips his jacket and _wrenches_ it open with sudden force. Yuuri can’t help the instinctive recoil, before he processes what he’s seeing.

“Is that…” he begins.

“I-watched-one-of-your-early-performances-and-I-was-so-inspired-that-I-knew-I-needed-to-skate-to—“

Yuuri reaches out, and— pats Minami’s cheek once, with a flat palm— just to make sure that he’s not… not _hallucinating_ this bizarre encounter. Minami certainly _feels_ real. And now he’s— fallen off his chair. He’s looking up at Yuuri with this— this _look_ on his face. He looks like he’s having an anaphylactic attack.

“Oh my god,” he says, “Oh my god.”

“Do you,” Yuuri begins helplessly, “Need a medic?”

Guang Hong finally seems to notice what’s happening because he stands up with a pitying look on his face, and collects Minami off the ground.

“Sorry about that,” he says to Yuuri, “I think Minami needs some time to calm down.”

“Right,” Yuuri says blankly, “Good luck on your free skate, Minami-kun.”

Minami bursts into tears.

 

 

 

 _“Phichit,”_ he hisses later, when he’s had more time to process everything and Phichit is sliding into the seat next to him in the last row, “I have no idea what is going on, like, do I know all these skaters? What have you been telling them about me? One of the Japanese skaters has apparently seen my _auditions for the Tokyo Ballet_ from _five years ago_ and he has an _inspired costume!_ ”

A pause.

“Am I hallucinating?” he asks, “Am I going to wake up at home and find out this has all been because of anaesthetics from my surgery?”

“Shhhhh, Yuuri,” Phichit just whispers, looking vaguely confused at his feverish rambling, “They need to resurface the ice, but once that’s done it’s Viktor’s turn.”

He snaps around. Sure enough, Viktor is standing near the entrance to the rink. His coach is gripping him by the shoulders, their heads together, talking to him firmly. He looks… stressed. Yuuri’s not sure he’s seen Viktor look like that in all his years of skating. Not even at the last Olympics.

“What’s up with Viktor?” a female skater is muttering two rows down from them, “He’s never been this bad before a competition. I actually thought he was _immune_ to pre-competition jitters.”

The red-head beside her sighs and turns to her. Her profile looks vaguely familiar.

“He’s working through some personal stuff,” she whispers back, “Don’t ask.”

“Personal stuff?” the other skater muses, “Never thought I’d see the day the king comes crashing down. Didn’t really think it’d ever happen.”

 _“Shut up,”_ hisses another skater— it’s Yuri Plisetsky. “It’s not his fault that _someone,”_ and this, he says pointedly loud for some reason, “had to be an insensitive prick.”

 _“Yura!”_ the red-head hisses, and then says something in sharp, angry Russian.

The exchange is entirely baffling.

A whooping cheer goes around the stadium as the zamboni backs slowly out of the wing. It magnifies in volume as Viktor pushes away from where he’d been bent over, hands on the wall of the rink, and steps out onto the ice. He looks… small — _alone_ — just a tiny purple smudge on the vast white ice. There’s this look on his face that…

“What’s wrong with him?” Yuuri asks Phichit in a concerned whisper.

Sure, he’s kind of resented the guy a little for forgetting. But… he’s probably met tonnes of people and he’d been so kind that night, so sweet when he didn’t have to be. He doesn’t— he doesn’t deserve to look the way he does now, so downtrodden and miserable.

Two rows ahead, Yuri Plisetsky bristles.

“What’s wrong with _you?”_ he retorts loudly, without turning around.

 _“Yura!”_ hisses the red-head again.

Yuuri winces. He supposes that _would_ have sounded pretty mean-spirited without context. He decides to keep his thoughts to himself for the rest of the event.

Another faint smattering of disorganised applause. Yuuri looks up to see that Viktor has assumed his starting position. A lone shout of _‘davai!’_ comes from the back of the stadium.

 _Davai!_ comes another.

_Viktor, davai!_

A loud cheer washes around the stadium again, and Viktor looks up briefly from his starting pose to wave. He’s smiling, but somehow it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes.

“If everyone is done with the applause,” the commentator’s voice booms around the stadium, sounding amused, “We would like to begin the program.”

Laughter.

Then…

_Silence._

The opening strains of an _aria_ echoes onto the ice. Yuuri’s breath hitches at the familiar melody. It’s— nostalgic to say the least. It hits a chord deep inside him, brings him back to the day he’d seen Viktor debut the program. The wonderment in his eyes, the quiet joy, the yearning. Against the backdrop of that fond memory, however, the program is almost unrecognisable now.

The program has evolved with the passing of the season and Yuuri… Yuuri’s not sure what to think about the way it looks now. It’s a masterpiece of technicality and emotional expression but— it hurts to watch. The wonderment has disappeared along with any joy. The yearning remains but seems vaguely… _hopeless_. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all.

Phichit puts a hand on his shoulder, and he realises that he’s frowning deeply. He looks down, away, smoothes his expression out to something more neutral.

The sharp _crunch_ of ice. The landing of the triple axel. Another _crunch_ , shortly after. The double lutz.

He takes a deep breath, looks up, and continues to watch stoically as the chorus begins and Viktor glides into the step sequence. There is something incredibly forlorn in the desperate reach of his fingers, in his quick turn of footwork, the angle of his chin. And it hurts. It hurts to look at. He clenches his fists.

The symphony swells into the familiar instrumental and a familiar emotion swells up in his chest in response.

Someone near him in the stands is whispering, and Yuuri realises belatedly that he’s stood up somewhere in the midst of it. He sheepishly begins to sit down when there’s a— strange jerk in Viktor’s footwork, as he turns towards Yuuri and into his last quad. He launches a little shakily into the toe loop as a result— veers into a steep curve on the landing.

A sympathetic _ooo_ goes around the stadium, but he seems to recover, makes for the triple toe—

Yuuri’s hands fly to his mouth as he takes off at a weird angle—

His ankle twists on the landing, and his body follows, slamming him to the ground _hard._ The impact can be heard even through the music.

“Oh my god,” he whispers.

But Viktor is trying to get back up. His whole body lunges weirdly forward on the first step, then he manages to glide into the next step. There’s a loud mutter rising through the crowd, but it dies quickly as he enters the ending spin. Yuuri can’t see his expression. He’s spinning too quickly. When he misses the flying camel spin, though, Yuuri begins to think that there’s something wrong.

Viktor draws slowly into the ending pose, sans the usual leap, and as he turns his face upward, Yuuri sees it— his expression looks pained.

He’s injured.

The music ends, and he waves at the crowd with a smile that— upon closer inspection— looks strained. The audience is screaming, however, and flowers are raining down from the stand. But at his first stuttering step forward, the cheers die. He takes another step, and then lunges painfully into next. His right ankle isn’t supporting him correctly. The audience begins to mutter— then the next skater— _it’s Chris_ , steps out onto the ice and begins skating rapidly towards him.

 _Ooo,_ goes the crowd as he nearly falls on the next step, and then Chris is drawing even with him, pulling one arm over his shoulder with a worried look.

Two rows down, the red-head stands. He recognises her now. Mila Babicheva. Sara Crispino on her other side pulls at her arm, and she sits down. Yuri Plisetsky is leaning forward in his seat, tense. The pair of skaters struggle to the edge of the rink, where Feltsman is waiting with a pinched look on his face. He pulls Viktor’s other arm over his shoulder, and together, they help him over to the kiss-and-cry.

 _“Yuuri,”_ Phichit hisses then, _“Sit down.”_

Yuri Plisetsky turns around and _glares_ right at him _._

Shaken at the venom in that one glance, he sits.

 

* * *

  

Weeks later, he hears the news.

_‘Breaking: Russian skating legend, Viktor Nikiforov, may not compete next season. His coach, Yakov Feltsman, revealed at a press conference this morning that he will need time to recover from his injury. The skater had taken a brutal fall during the Winter Games late last month where he had won the title of Olympic Champion for the second time running. His victory, however, came at the cost of—‘_

Yuuri stands up, and turns the TV off.

The small dumbbell he’d been holding rolls off his lap and onto the floor.

He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, and picks it back up. He rolls his right shoulder as he straightens, and it turns smoothly into the motion. No pain. No limitation in range. He breathes out. Two weeks into rehabilitation, and so far so good.

He sits back down, and continues to count reps. In front of him are a bunch of papers, notes, engineering calculations. He’s going to finish his degree in the next six months, and it’s not going to be easy. Amongst the papers are two letters. One, a job offer letter from one of the largest and grandest burlesque lounges in New York City; the other a post-it with the contact of a physiotherapist that Ana had recommended, and a prominent pole teacher in Brooklyn.

According to Phichit’s apologetic mutterings, Celestino’s been talking about moving base to New York near the end of the year, and Yuuri— Yuuri badly needs a change of environment.

He reaches twenty, and sets the dumbbell down.

He’s moving into a new phase of his life now. The thought fills him with hopeful determination.

 _New York City,_ he thinks, _I’m coming for you now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phichit's t-shirt is a shirt that appeared on a thread I found about "Engrish T-shirts in Asia". I personally think he'd find them hilarious and would specifically hunt down the funniest ones whenever he's in Thailand so that he can wear them when returns to the States.
> 
> That said, I also want to acknowledge that depression and disordered eating are not at all easy to recover from, and that recovery is a very long and arduous process. I did not cover nearly enough of that before the ending scene. However, the chapter had been dragging pretty long, which led me to end it where I did. I do plan to cover more of Yuuri's recovery in the next chapter. Not just his physical recovery, but also his mental one.
> 
> Before then, I hope you've enjoyed the chapter, and please, please do leave a comment! I've enjoyed hearing from everyone so much. Thanks again to everyone who's commented, and also thanks to the person who boosted this fic on Tumblr. If you want to follow me there, I'm [asideoftrashplease](https://asideoftrashplease.tumblr.com/).


	4. yuuri's natural eros causes area viktor to fall over himself

New York City is a blaze of lights, not unlike Los Angelos, yet at the same time, so indescribably and inexplicably different. There’s an energy to New York, a buzz underlying it all that Yuuri can’t even begin to explain. He slots into the chaos of it all immediately.

Phichit arrives a month after he does, _ecstatic_ of course, from the excitement of being in New York, _New York._ There’s plastic over the furniture in his room, his half-unpacked clothes strewn all over, but he leaves Yuuri to the mess of it, all but _floating_ out the door to experience the city for himself.

In the meantime, Yuuri takes his time to settle in, to hang his clothes up in the wardrobe, to wander directionless through the streets, to map his commute to his new club, his new physiotherapist, his new studio — takes his time to slowly inhabit the unfamiliar space. The last thing he does is to lay out the pieces of his pole in the living room, yet to be assembled but holding a sort of promise. _I’m waiting._

He also begins seeing the physiotherapist Ana had recommended. She’s Russian too, with an equally long Russian name that Yuuri cannot pronounce. He calls her Dr. Kat instead. She’s started him on the harder rehabilitative exercises, strength-building ones, and she’s started some movement assessment to improve his form when he returns to pole. She’s a small-framed, lively woman with a thick Russian accent and a will of steel. He likes her.

Madame Rouge is his next stop.

The club is serves as a high-end bar during the day, but at night becomes home to a troupe of regular burlesque performers. He’s greeted, upon entry, with the luxury of velvet chairs and mahogany floors, a handful of men in suits seated in plush chairs holding martini glasses, conversing quietly, and grand piano up on the stage with no player. Quiet jazz plays from the speakers.

The Madame comes quickly to receive him. Dark-haired and dark-eyed with burgundy lips, she does not tell him her name or introduce herself in any way, just leads him to a private room where she goes through the contract terms with him. He gets a short tour of the premises, including the backstage areas and the dressing rooms, before she tells him Madame Rouge’s code of conduct. It’s much the same as Bratty Catty’s, really. No sexual acts within the premises, and if anyone is behaving inappropriately, alert the bouncers. At the end of everything, she presents him with his contract, which he signs. His first shift is the very next day.

It’s a Thursday evening, quiet, but not empty. The Madame watches, dark-eyed, from behind the counter as he gets up on the stage. He knows immediately that she’s there for him. Music plays, smooth and thick, a luxurious 60s blues, but if she thinks a strip-joint stripper like Yuuri can’t dance to this, she has _severely_ underestimated him.

[ The violins begin the intro](https://youtu.be/NV_zbt7ycUc?t=17s), slow and easy, as he eases into the rich vocals that follow. There are two poles on the stage, a chair, and an ache within him that calls to the memory of flight, the sensation of gliding, sailing smooth through the air.

But he has time. He has time.

He improvises a routine that is slow and indulgent: a drawn out extension of his leg, a slow turn into a pirouette, the long twirling leaps he takes from knee to knee across the expanse of the stage, before he eases coyly into the chair. Wine glasses clink. The pianist croons gently on.

He does not touch the pole even once throughout the shift.

 

* * *

 

The thing is that recovery is not easy in the slightest.

It’s not so much painful as it is depleting, _demoralising_. Weakness has a way of sapping at the spirit, slowly but surely, and in those dark early days, he’d been terribly, terribly weak. He’d not fully appreciated having full range of bodily motion until it’d been ripped from him.

Being unable to properly feed himself, being unable to pull doors open— all those small little things put together became crushing in its entirety. He’d been prepared to start over, to return to the basics spins and work himself back up to what he had been before the accident. What he had _not_ expected was to have to relearn how to _open doors_ and _feed himself_. His first physical therapy session had left him feeling empty inside for days.

Above all else, what had really broken him in the early days had been how _slowly_ it all had come along. Early rehabilitation was an art of resting, rather than an art of training. And as much as he’d tried to keep it together, in the stillness, he’d only found restlessness — a frantic need to move, to train, to regain what he’d lost now, _now_. In the stillness, he’d found, there’d only been anxiety, slow-building and torturous.

Perhaps then, the intense course load had been good for something.

Graduating by the end of the year hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it, with a combination of maximum course loads and summer school. He'd even applied to increase his maximum course load and been accepted. He'd maintained a pretty good GPA before his injury. School had helped in a way, by keeping him too occupied to stress over his sedentary state.

 

The day after filing for graduation, he’d called home for the first time in months to tell them he was graduating, but had promptly burst into tears over the phone instead. He’d ended up telling his mother all about his injury and everything that had happened since.

After he’d ended the call, his parents had transferred him money for the surgery, money that he didn’t actually need. He’d sent it back the moment he received it.

The truth was that he still hadn’t told his family about the stripping, even though he _had_ been sending part of his earnings back, so they _had_ known that he’d had a job. Back when he’d first started sending money back, he’d told them that he was freelancing as a dancer. It wasn’t until then that he’d finally confessed the true nature of his job to Mari, who’d called, furious, when the money had appeared on the _Yuutopia’s_ bank statement.

Stripping, he’d explained, made quite the quick buck.

“Well,” she’d said then, “That is… _wow._ I just— I don’t know what to say.”

He had been braced for the worst, but—

“Does that mean you’ve finally mustered the guts to get laid?”

He had groaned, and hung up on her.

 

**katsuki-yuri**

[A young man with black hair and blue-framed glasses, wearing a graduation hat and holding a scroll. Beside him, Phichit has an arm hooked around his neck, winking, other hand in a victory sign.]

Liked by **+guanghongji+, icequeenyuuko** and **238 others  
** Thank you everyone for the support and well wishes. The last six months since I was injured have been difficult, but I’ve been studying very hard, and am glad to say that I’ve finally made it to graduation. Los Angeles has been my home for the last three years, but it’s time to say goodbye now. Thank you again for the well-wishes, and a special thank you to @BrattyCattys for taking such good care of me. I will miss the family I have made in Los Angeles.

View all 53 comments  
**christophe-gc** you’re moving?? where to????  
**katsuki-yuri** @christophe-gc yes i am moving. i will be based out of madame rouge in nyc.  
**christophe-gc** @katsuki-yuri if i pass through, i’ll be sure to pay you a visit ;)  
**katsuki-yuri** @christophe-gc please do \\( ^u^ )/ you have my number!

 

**christophe-gc**

yuuri is too cute

too pure

too good for this world

**phichit+chu**

what happened

what did i miss

is my yuuri cuteness radar malfunctioning

**christophe-gc**

did you see his reply on his latest insta post

**phichit+chu**

oh

my

god

that smiley

IS TOO CUTE

omg i’m dying

i am CRYING

**christophe-gc**

you’re welcome

 

The very day he’s officially cleared safe for pole, he goes to find Ana in his old studio. It’s— exactly the same as when he’d left: the dim tungsten lighting, the black curtains at the end of the room, that _godawful_ hot pink striped wallpaper that had always made him so dizzy during spins. It’s all strangely nostalgic.

Ana’s class is fully booked, so he enters himself for a basic class under another instructor. She’s new to the studio, nice, enthusiastic, and a little quirky. She doesn’t recognise him, of course, and so he introduces himself to her briefly before she begins the warm-up for the class.

The warm-up leaves him unsettled.

He’s out of breath, panting, core trembling from the planks they’d done. As everyone keeps their mats away and begin wiping those their poles, the instructor begins to demonstrate the tricks for the day. They are working on extremely basic spins, but when he swings around into the familiar move, his hand just slips right down the moment his feet leave the ground. Frustrated, he wipes his hands down with alcohol and tries again, but the same thing happens.

Someone offers him their grip-aid. He applies the liquid chalk to his hands.

This time, he manages to stay up, but he can feel his fingers slipping still. It’s then that he realises that its not his sweaty palms. It’s _him_. He’s not strong enough. He’s not strong enough to _hang from his hands anymore._

The realisation makes his breath come short.

But they are moving on to the next move, a basic spinning climb. He’s numb throughout the instructor’s detailed explanation. She spends a long time breaking the move down for the class, but he’s barely present throughout it all, just trying to control his breathing.

The class begins attempting the climb once she’s finished her demonstration. Yuuri takes a deep breath, and attempts the familiar entry. The pull into the climb takes an inordinate amount of energy and as the pole begins to spin faster and faster— he’s thrown right off.

He’s— he’s not strong enough to hold on anymore.

He’s panting hard from the exertion, but something else is tightening in his chest, making it harder to breathe. He shuts his eyes tight and gasps in a breath, opens his eyes again, blinking hard, the lights blinding, the room a blur, voices coming to him as if underwater. He shuts his eyes, sucks in a sharp breath, but it’s not enough. It’s not enough. He falls back slowly into the wall, eyes closed, and slides down to the floor—

Another gasp of air.

Disembodied voices. Disembodied hands.

He buries his face in his knees, but it doesn’t help. His face is wet, his lungs too small. He’s gasping, gasping too hard to breathe.

There’s a crowd gathering around him now, blending together in an awful cacophony of disjointed shouting. Too loud, too much, too _much_ all at once.

“Call an ambulance,” he hears through it all.

“No,” he gasps, “I’m fine— I’m—“

“What’s happening here?”

It’s Ana.

A moment later, the crowd is dispersing, and he’s being shielded from the light by a woman’s body. She pulls her jacket off and drapes it over him and it— it smells _just like her._

He blinks a few tears free.

“Breathe, Yuuri,” she’s saying, “Breathe with me.”

She’s holding one of his hands to her sternum, her ribs expanding and contracting under his palm.

“Breathe with me.”

He breathes.

His heart rate slows, everything coming gradually back into focus. The exhaustion hits him abruptly. As if sensing this, Ana pulls his face into her shoulder.

“He’s okay,” she’s telling the instructor, “He’s one of my old students.”

She strokes one hand comfortingly through his hair.

“He’ll be okay now.”

 

He returns again the next day, having booked a slot in Ana’s class.

When she sees him, however, she just shakes her head.

“I’ll refund you the class you booked,” she tells him, “Go home.”

It’s like his heart drops out from beneath him.

“But—“ he begins numbly, hurt, “I’ve been cleared for pole. The doctor said it was fine.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Ana says, “I know.”

He feels the heat rising to his face, his eyes beginning to sting with tears.

“Then why?” he asks.

Ana just smiles sadly.

“Trust me, sweetie,” she tells him, “It’ll hurt more trying to start anew here. You’ll just be constantly reminded of everything you could once do, that you can no longer do, or that you’ll _never_ be able to do again. Sometimes, after an accident like that, you just need a change of space to start afresh.”

There’s something about the way she says it that makes him think that she’s speaking from experience.

“Is that why you left Russia?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer.

She just cups his face gently, and pulls him into a hug.

“Good luck in New York,” she whispers, and he’s suddenly hit by the realisation of just how much he’s going to miss Ana. Her perfectionism, her nitpicking, her uncanny ability to frustrate him in _just_ the right way needed to motivate him— he’s going to miss her _so_ much. The tears come to his eyes again as he buries his face in her shoulder. She drives him crazy sometimes, but he loves her for it.

“Can I pack you in my suitcase and bring you to New York with me?” he jokes.

She just laughs, and kisses him on the forehead.

“Remember your dream,” she tells him.

But when she pulls away, her cheeks are wet too.

“One day, Yuuri,” she says, “You’re going to be the best pole dancer the world has ever seen.”

 

* * *

 

**BREAKING: NIKIFOROV TO TAKE SEASON OFF**

MOSCOW — A disastrous fall at the Winter Olympics early this year had left Russian skating legend, Viktor Nikiforov, staggering off the ice. Although his performance had earned him the title of Olympic Champion for the second time running, it had also rendered the future of his career dangerously uncertain.

In the aftermath, there had only been one question on everyone’s minds.

Was _this_ the end of the Nikiforov reign?

A month in, and a press conference from Nikiforov’s coach, Yakov Feltsman, had set the tongues a-wagging. Although he had avoided directly addressing the severity of his student’s injury, his admission of uncertainty on whether Nikiforov would be competing in the next season hinted that it was no mere twisted ankle.

A long radio silence had followed. Feltsman had refused to answer any further media enquiries. Even Nikiforov himself, known for being an avid user of social media, had retreated into uncharacteristic silence.

Last week, Feltsman finally broke in a statement to Sports Express. In his statement, the man revealed that Nikiforov would _not_ be competing in the upcoming season, and that he (Feltsman) would be focusing his attention on junior Russian skater, Yuri Plisetsky, during the season. The thirteen-year-old is widely regarded to be Russia’s next up-and-coming champion.

Feltsman’s refusal to comment on whether Nikiforov would be returning in the following season does not seem to bode well for Nikiforov fans. At the age of twenty-five, he is young by all ordinary measures. In terms of his competitors, however, he is already getting on in years. His fall at the Olympics could very well be the end to his career. For now, it remains to be seen whether he will eventually return to the sport.

30 July 2010

 

* * *

 

It takes him two weeks once he’s settled into his new apartment, but he eventually musters the courage to head over to the studio that’s going to be his from now on. It’s a small studio in Brooklyn, owned by its main instructor, a lady named Noémie. The walls are painted a light cream, the floors a light pine with the windows thrown open to let the sun come in.

It looks— clean. A blank slate.

It looks like a good place to start over, to try again from the very beginning.

Ana had referred him to the head instructor here, but he doesn’t want to approach her just yet. He wants— he wants to start over, for real. He doesn’t want to be Yuuri the ex-competitive pole dancer with an injury anymore. He wants to be Yuuri, just Yuuri, a stranger starting pole from the bottom.

And so, he approaches the receptionist to register for a basic pole term that’s starting in a week, and she presents him with the studio’s standard waiver form. As he fills in his details, he pauses at a field labeled: Medical conditions (optional)

"Excuse me," he begins, using his pen to tap the field, "Can I not sign up for a class if—"

"Oh, no, no, no," the receptionist laughs jovially,, "You don’t have to fill it up if you don’t want to, but in case anything happens, it would be nice for us to know. Like, for example, there was once we had a girl having a panic attack in one of our classes.. She was hyperventilating and crying and we were like— so what do we do, do we call the ambulance, is it a heart attack, what's happening? In the end it would have been nice to know that oh! she has anxiety, and it's not a seizure or anything immediately life-threatening."

"Anxiety," Yuuri says.

"Well, yes," the receptionist replies, tilting her head a little, as if confused.

"Okay," he says, and writes down _'rotator cuff tear'_ in neat block letters.

"And your name down here, please."

"Okay," he says.

He signs his name.

 

When he goes home, he opens his laptop and keys it with shaking fingers into Google.

Anxiety.

He spends the next hour or two browsing. There's just— there's just so much information, so much to take in. At the end of it all he sits back, letting out a slow breath as he pushes his hair back from his face.

Anxiety.

He closes his eyes.

So that's what it is.

He arranges a consultation with a therapist that very night.

 

* * *

 

A week later, he heads over to the studio for his first basic class.

He’d been doing some basic pilates at home to build up his strength, and so, even though the warm-up still leaves him more out of breath than he’s used to, he’s feeling better than the last time. He’d also been working on his grip strength. He still slips a little, but otherwise, he’s doing well.

Between the different spins the instructor demonstrates, he decides to take some time to revise a few of the other spins he still remembers. After doing them each a few times, he tries to string them together into a short routine. His core is beginning to tremble again, but it’s— it’s a good feeling.

“Have you done pole before?”

He straightens up as the instructor addresses him.

“I’m beginning again after a six month break,” he replies, a little breathy from exertion.

“I thought that may be the case,” she laughs.

She has a nice smile. It makes her beetle-black eyes shine as she reaches back to tie her dreadlocks into a loose bun, before wiping her hands on her shorts. Yuuri steps back as she reaches up to grasp the pole.

“But this is how you can make it better,” she says, and turns slowly into a chair spin, “You’ll want to keep your shoulders not just _down,_ but _back.”_ She demonstrates, first hunching, then pulling her shoulders back. _“_ Imagine you’ve got a penny between your shoulder blades, and you’re trying to hold it there.”

She alights gracefully, and straightens up.

“I noticed that your shoulders scrunch a little when you get tired,” she admits, “You can injure yourself that way doing the more advanced moves. ”

That’s pretty much what Dr. Kat’s been telling him during their movement assessments.

“I’ve noticed,” he says with a little laugh.

She gives him a sharp look.

“Do you have any old injuries?” she asks.

“Rotator cuff tear,” he says sheepishly, rolling his shoulder to demonstrate, “On the right side.”

“Ah,” she says, as if with realization.

She looks him up and down once, a measuring look in her eye. He blinks and shifts his weight a little, confused, but eventually, she just nods and pats him on the shoulder.

“Mind your form,” is what she says, “That should help.”

She returns to the front of the class.

“Alright everyone,” she calls, clapping her hands. The class quiets down as everyone stops what they’re doing to pay attention. “For the last bit of the class, I’m going to play some music, and what I want you all to do is to string together the moves you’ve learnt today. If you fall or mess up, just laugh it off, and keep going, okay? Don’t stop.”

A chorus of _alright!_ goes around the class.

“Good,” she says, and jogs over to the speaker, “Have fun.”

She hits play.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of his own breathing, the room falling away into silence as they collectively wait for the music to begin.

[ The slow strum of an electric guitar emerges steadily from the quiet. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pib8eYDSFEI)

He begins with a slow roll of his head, eyes closed, and lets the motion turn him into the pole, then around it in a few slow easy steps. He grasps the pole as the guitars intensify, the drums kicking in, then swings himself up onto the pole to begin the improvised routine for real.

He sticks at first to the basic moves, nothing fancy, but as he goes through the moves he remembers, focusing on stringing them together, focusing on the beat, something— something clicks into place inside him. The rhythm of the music, the beating of the drums, the spinning of the pole. A music begins to sing quietly to life inside of him, and a smile begins to form on his lips.

He begins to dare attempt some harder moves. And although he’s far from doing the moves well— he’s slipping and falling off the pole here and there— he’s having _fun_. His smile widens the longer he dances, a rictus grin that creeps onto his face, and begins to build into a giddy, somewhat reckless laughter.

At one point, he loses his grip completely attempting a too-advanced move, and clatters clumsily to the ground. Somehow, that just makes him laugh, giddy. The laughter bubbles out of his chest, impetuous from the rush of it all, before he turns over onto his belly into a short bout of floor work.

Feeling reckless, he finally throws caution to the wind, and launches himself up and over in one of the more basic flips he knows. It’s nothing too difficult or too upper-body intensive, and he lands squarely on his feet, but the landing is loud and far from perfect, and he immediately overbalances and falls backwards onto his ass.

Delighted laughter bursts from him as he rolls his head back, drunk off the pleasure of the dance, and grasps the pole again, bringing one leg around in sweeping motion that lifts him off his feet. He spins back onto the pole, arching, flipping, reaching with graceful arms.

He’s having so much fun he almost doesn’t notice the music drawing to an end. He holds the spin for one more round, before he alights.

He immediately flops down onto the floor, panting hard from the exertion, and tosses his head back, laughing, gasping as he tries to regain his breath.

Someone begins to clap.

The rest of the class erupts into applause.

He looks up, still gasping, and is surprised to find that the applause is for _him._ Most of the class had apparently stopped somewhere along the way to watch him, and the instructor is clapping along with them from the front of the class. There’s a delighted shine in her eye, a smile pulling at her lips.

As he’s leaving the class later, she just shakes her head as he passes by her.

“Ana wrote to me to say you were good,” she confesses, “And I was wondering what kind of a person would inspire _her_ , of all people, to say that.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen.

“You’re Noémie?”

She laughs.

“Are you surprised?”

He is, and being called out on it flusters him. He’d thought she’d be Russian. He’d thought she’d be _white._

“I thought you would be Russian,” he admits, and then abruptly realises that there were probably racial minorities settled in Russia too. What if she _was_ Russian?

The thing is he panics easily about things like this, and then all sorts of nonsense starts coming out of his mouth, such as: “Or are you Russian? You don’t look Russian. Oh god, wait, please forget I said that. I don’t know what Russians look like. I’m sorry if you’re Russian, oh my god. I’m so stupid.”

She begins to laugh, and he just wants to hide somewhere for awhile.

“My parents were originally from France,” she allows, “But I’m a New Yorker, born and bred. I met Ana while we were both still competing.”

She extends a hand, which he takes. She has a firm handshake.

“I’m Yuuri,” he mumbles shyly, “Katsuki.”

She just nods indulgently, smiling.

“I know,” she says.

 

 

He goes back later and googles her.

She’s been running her studio for nearly a decade, and back before there had been any World Championships, she had been the three-time winner of Miss Pole Dance America.

 

 

**phichit+chu**

[A young black-haired man frowning at a sheet of paper, several pieces of a pole laid out around him. Phichit’s face in the foreground, winking and making a duck face.]

Liked by **sala-crispino, v-nikiforov**  and **198 others  
** @katsuki-yuri is back in the hooouse! just have to figure out how to put this pesky pole together. #pole #nofilter #newyork #wheredreamsaremadeof

View all 23 comments  
**sala-crispino** glad to hear that yuri’s feeling better!  
**phichit+chu** @sala-crispino he’s definitely doing well! how’s preparation for nationals?  
**sala-crispino** @phichit+chu :’)  
**phichit+chu** @sala-crispino #relatable

 

It takes him awhile to be comfortable using the pole at work, and when he eventually decides that he's ready, it takes him even longer to ease back into it.

It feels different, like coming back to a lover after a long time spent apart, like recommunicating a relationship, with the pole and with the air, like easing warily back into trusting someone who's hurt him once before. It's a slow and tentative process.

The strange thing is that Eros is concerningly absent when he does begin again. Eros had always been there, the membrane between Yuuri and pole, but now it's just him, just plain old Yuuri. He's not sure how to feel about it. There's a part of him he doesn't quite understand that's almost— relieved. He's still not sure why.

Strangest of all, there are people he don't know cheering him on over social media. It's a little weird and it just gets weirder the longer he thinks about, but he has— he has fans. He has people who are invested in him despite never having met him, people who he has some obligation to assure that he's alive and well. He's been waiting for awhile, still not quite sure how to word his update to them all, though he wants to. He wants to tell them that he's doing better, and that he's back doing what he loves.

It's not till a few weeks in that he decides how he's going to do it. He's been itching to choreograph something again, not just to improvise, but to have something of his own to culture and bring slowly to life. He wants— wants to go back right to the start of it all. He wants to reconnect with the joy and wonderment that had begun his journey. He wants to remember why. There's been the beginnings of something working itself out in his head. He can feel the image of it in his bones, itching to get free. But he's just not sure if he should.

"Do it," Phichit says, when he finally tells him about it.

There's something in him that still hurts at the memory of being forgotten, but there's also a part of him that has forgiven. What had he done then to be remembered anyway? What really mattered was what he would do from here on out, to become worthy of being remembered, to never be forgotten by anyone again.

In Regards To Love had been the birth of Eros, but Stammi Vicino— Stammi Vicino had been the beginning of the Yuuri as he is now. There is no choice of song that could more be apt for his re-birth.

 

**katsuki-yuri**

[A four minute-long video of a young man dancing, pole silhouetted against an open window. In the background, Stammi Vicino plays.]

Liked by **phichit+chu** , **icequeenyuuko** , and **563 others  
** Thank you all for your support. I'm back.

 _View 78 comments..._  
**christophe-gc** marvelous!  
**poleweekly** it's good to see you back! we would love to feature you on our page if you are alright with that?  
**phichit+chu** this boy is on fyaaaaaahhh

 

 

 

**christophe-gc**

hey

i know you're not gonna believe me

no matter what i say

so I'm not going to say anything

just go and watch this

 **katsuki-yuri  
** [Video thumbnail.]  
**katsuki-yuri** Thank you all for your support. I'm back. [...]

 

* * *

 

It’s only maybe a week or two later That Yuuri spots him— at the very back of Madame Rouge, all but his bright starshine hair obscured by the crowd.

It’s Viktor, no doubt about it, and Yuuri doesn’t know how to feel about it at first. He cycles through a mix of confusion, excitement, apprehension, and apathy before settling finally on irritation. So it _was_ true that Viktor frequented strip clubs in his off time. He was probably the sort to enjoy a fawning girl (or boy) on either arm. Yuuri had been one of those disposable tittering toys, but Viktor— he’d just had that way of making each person feel special. That’s something he’d noticed in watching Viktor interact with fans in the media— that was what had made him so very well-loved.

Let him forget then, Yuuri thinks viciously, he’s never going to even dream of forgetting me again.

He adjusts the straps around his ankles and ascends the stage. As he grabs the pole in one hand, he flicks his eyes to the side, piercing Viktor’s stare with his own. The man blinks, and then looks around him, as if wondering who Yuuri is looking at. Yuuri shakes his head a little as he turns back, and then lets a slow luxurious smirk melt across his lips.

_Don’t take your eyes off me._

[ The guitars begin, easy and funky. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JoqLnkcjZmQ) He takes a slow, slinking walk around the pole, before the vocals begin in a slow croon. He closes his eyes, runs his hands back and through his hair, down by the sides of his face, his neck, his collar, rocking his hips slowly. At the end of the first verse, he snaps his arms _up_ , aloft, turns on the spot once with his arms overhead, before grabbing the pole. He flips himself up and over, and lands in a split.

The crowd begins to cheer. There’s a slow grin, small and wicked, spreading across Yuuri’s lips. He has refrained from using the pole as Eros lately, but there’s something in him, triggered by the sight of Viktor, that’s rising fast and unfamiliar. It actually surprises him a little. He has always associated that greedy wanting voice with Eros, not plain old Yuuri. But Eros is nowhere in sight today. Everything. This. It’s all Yuuri now. The hands he draws down the line of his jaw and the kissing hollows of his throat, the fingers that play sensually at his bottom lip and his hips.

They don’t _have_ to take anything off when on the stage. That’s usually reserved for private dances. So Yuuri plays that to the best of his advantage, pulling at the waist of his thong on one side to expose the deep vee of his pelvis, playing with the ribbons of the thong as if he’s going to _pull._ There’s a growing chant from the crowd of _‘Take it off! Take it off!’_ but he just throws a coy smile over his shoulder, making sure to catch Viktor’s eyes, before turning to the pole and spinning back up onto it.

The crowd hoots and hollers as he spins a few slow rounds, arched around the pole, before dropping suddenly into an upside-down split. He winks once at someone gawking in the front row, a dark curtain of false lashes obscuring his sight temporarily, before he continues along to the funky beat. Snapping his fingers and flicking his head, winking and clapping and tapping his heels, twirling. It’s a fun song, playful, and he takes his time with it— has a little fun. It’s a faint echo of that very first flamenco he’d danced for Viktor, superimposed over a luxurious funk.

He smiles as the music ends.

There are greedy hands reaching out to him as he walks down the aisle, brushing dollar bills against his arms and hips, but he ignores them all. He stares straight forward with a dark hooded gaze, Viktor seeming to shrink back a little as he’s pinned by that look, bewildered.

Viktor’s wearing a slim-fit buttoned shirt, rolled up to his elbows, with combat boots and, of all things, a black leather choker. Yuuri brings his right knee up onto the seat by Viktor’s hip, tilting his head with a cocky smirk as he slips one finger into his choker. Viktor’s mouth falls open as Yuuri leans in close to whisper into his ear.

“You know,” he croons, “I think I like you.”

He draws back, tilting his head with a wicked grin.

“How about a dance? No charge.”

His therapist— she tells him it’s unhealthy to separate Eros and Yuuri. Using Eros as a crutch has always helped him make up for Yuuri’s deficiencies, but it’s only going to work for so long, she likes to say, it’s not sustainable. They’re trying to find the overlap, the middle of the Venn diagram between Eros and Yuuri. He hadn’t believed they could but—

He thinks he’s found it now.

He’s found the Eros in Yuuri.

Viktor’s mouth is still open, and when he cocks an eyebrow, the man’s mouth just closes and opens again in response, soundlessly, and the sight _annoys_ him.

With a loud _clack,_ he brings his other heel down on the seat on Viktor’s other side, effectively straddling him. Viktor swallows visibly, and licks his lips. His pupils are dilated.

He finally gives a smile, slightly tremulous.

“Show me what you’ve got?”

Yuuri smiles, and rises up onto his knees, rolling his hips up in a fluid ripple. Just as he’s about to begin however, Viktor grabs his wrist. He snatches it away with a burst of annoyance.

“Just look,” he snaps, “Don't touch.”

“Sorry,” Viktor says hoarsely, “Sorry, I was just— just thinking if we could move somewhere quieter?”

Yuuri tilts his head, blinking. This is usually where he takes the chance to upgrade a customer to a VIP room. He knows Viktor has the money to do it, and is willing to spend that money but—  something in him—

Something in him doesn’t want Viktor’s money. He doesn’t want to skew this interaction in that way.

So he stands and navigates through the crowds until they reach a small booth at the back. He doesn't turn to check if Viktor is following even once. He knows he is.

He pulls Viktor into the booth with him, and directs him to sit with a single imperious finger to the chest. Once he's seated, Yuuri raises his chin and looks down at him coldly.

“One song,” he says, “I’m yours for one song. Watch, but don’t touch.”

He sets one stiletto on the seat between Viktor’s spread thighs with a loud _clack._ Viktor tilts his head back until it knocks against the wall behind him. His adam's apple bobs once. His pupils are so dilated that only a thin ring of blue remains of his irises.

Yuuri smirks at the sight, and leans down.

“One song,” he whispers again into Viktor’s ear, and then he straightens— and begins.

He straddles Viktor’s lap smoothly, then rises up onto his knees, rolling his hips slow and sensuous. The music playing is slow and heavy, like thick dark chocolate, quieter in the small booth they are in. He eases his hips slowly down, still rolling in figure-eights, until he’s seated in Viktor’s lap. He leans in close and sets his chin against Viktor’s collar, breathing against the man’s throat as he continues to rock his hips.

Viktor’s hands come up instinctively to hold him by the hips, but Yuuri leans back immediately, slapping them away.

“No touching,” he snaps.

“Sorry,” Viktor says again, his voice breathy now, and closes his eyes tight.

That immediately annoys Yuuri, the thought that he could be imagining someone else— probably the person he’d choreographed his routines about— probably the person who must have broken his heart.

At that moment, there’s a mix of pity, _sympathy,_ in there, but it’s overridden by jealousy. He grabs Viktor roughly by the chin, leaning in as his eyes fly open.

“Don’t,” Yuuri snarls, “Take your eyes off me.”

“Sorry,” Viktor just breathes again.

He rises back up onto his knees and snaps his pelvis forward, once. Viktor immediately begins to blush, which surprises Yuuri. He hadn't thought Viktor would be so shy after all the strip clubs he’s been to, all the lap dances he’s probably received.

He sits back down, and— he would recognize the feel of a boner against him anywhere. Viktor just blushes harder, and Yuuri is slightly fascinated to see that it goes all the way down into his open collar. Viktor’s a chest-blusher, and Yuuri can’t help but wonder _just_ how far down that blush can go.

He shakes the thought off and tries to redirect his focus to the lapdance. He notices Viktor’s hands clenched around the handles of the armrests, white-knuckled.

They only get whiter when Yuuri dismounts to slip his thong off, letting it swing once around his fingers before dropping somewhere he can easily retrieve later. He turns and bends over, moving his hips in slow circles. He hears Viktor’s breath catch, a moment before he cups one cheek in his palm, thumb brushing dangerously close to the crease.

Yuuri lets out a warning hiss, and those hands drop away immediately.

“Sorry,”— even breathier this time.

He holds the position for a while, hands on his knees, back arched as he rolls his hips slowly, before straightening and sitting back into Viktor’s lap. He stumbles a little there, tripping over one of Viktor’s ankle, and Viktor steadies him by one thigh, before letting go as if burnt.

Yuuri lets that one go.

But as if emboldened by the fact that they are no longer facing each other, Viktor begins to _talk._

“You know,” he breathes. “What you did up there— I’ve never seen anything like it.”

And it’s like Yuuri’s heart turns to stone. He goes cold all over, sensuous smile falling right off his face.

“What,” he says, hips stilling.

“I mean it!” Viktor says quickly, sounding oh-so-earnest and _oh_ -so- _eager,_ “I’ve never— I’ve never seen anyone dance the way you do."

It’s the exact same thing he’d said those years ago, almost word for fucking word.

“Do you say that to all the pretty boys you meet?” Yuuri asks, sickly sweet.

Viktor seems to sense his ire at once.

“No!” he bursts out, so eager to please, “No, I’ve only said it to you. Why would I say it to anyone else?”

“Liar,” Yuuri says flatly, and stands up.

“No, but I—”

“Get out,” Yuuri tells him without turning around, “Get out of here now.”

Viktor sucks in a breath behind him.

“Please,” he says, like saying it is shredding him— ever the good actor, “I came here looking for you, just you, not anyone else.”

Empty words, and that just makes the disappointment boil over into red hot fury.

Yuuri turns around and grabs Viktor up by the choker.

“Don’t you ever,” he whispers quietly, leaning in with his lips drawn back into a snarl, “Come looking for me at my place of work ever again.”

He waves a bouncer over.

“Please,” Yuuri bites out, “Escort this gentleman out.”

The bouncer grabs Viktor by the arm and yanks him to his feet.

“Wait—” Viktor calls, voice breaking—

But Yuuri just turns away.

 

**PEREZ HILTON: NIKIFOROV THROWN OUT OF CLUB FOR HARASSING DANCER**

NEW YORK  —  In the wee hours of Saturday morning, Viktor Nikiforov, two-time Olympic figure skating Champion, was seen being manhandled out of Madame Rouge, a famous high-end burlesque club in downtown Manhattan—

 

 

That’s all of the headline Yuuri gets to read of the tabloid being waved in his face, until it’s unceremoniously plucked away to be replaced by Phichit’s incredulous face.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” he splutters, scandalized, “Tell me the truth: Did you or did you not have Viktor Nikiforov thrown out of your club yesterday?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, closes it soundlessly, then opens it again.

“Yes?” he answers, unsurely.

“You—” Phichit begins, then falls over backwards onto the couch, hands over his face.

“Oh my _god!”_ he shouts.

 

* * *

 

There’s a bit of a commotion at the door during his shift the next day, which he chalks up to paparazzi or the news trying to get a sound-bite. On Sunday though, there’s a commotion again, and this time it ends in a bouncer coming to tell him to head over to the side-exit, the one that opens into an alley. Confused, he finishes up his last lapdance, and goes.

When he first opens the door, he doesn’t see anyone, until he looks down.

There’s a small blonde boy with a bowl-cut standing by the dumpster with his arms crossed and a petulant frown on his face.

It’s Yuri Plisetsky.

“I have ID,” he says, scowling, holding up a pretty good fake.

“Sweetie, fake IDs only work when you don’t look ten.”

“I’m thirteen.”

Yuuri sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, careful not to smudge his makeup as he bends down on one knee in front of the boy.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s your fault,” Yuri Plisetsky tells him imperiously.

“What is?”

“Viktor!”

Yuuri sighs again.

“I’m pretty sure Viktor was his parents’ fault. Why don’t you go talk to them?”

But Yuri Plisetsky just frowns, confused.

“What?”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“Nevermind,” he says, “So Viktor is apparently my fault now. What do you want me to do?”

“It’s your fault,” the boy says again, petulant, “So you fix him.”

“So I fix him, eh?” Yuuri humors dryly, “What if I don’t want to talk to him?”

Little Yuri glares.

“You owe him,” he accuses lowly.

And that just rubs Yuuri the wrong way.

He stands and straightens to his full height. He cocks one eyebrow and lifts his chin, staring icily down his nose at the boy.

Yuri actually takes a step back, petulance cracking for a moment in his eyes as he tilts his head back, and back, and back, to meet Yuuri’s darkly lined eyes, cold as ice and set on nine-inch heels.

“I don’t,” Yuuri says quietly then, _“Owe_ anyone anything.”

And closes the door in the boy’s face.

 

 

 

As he’s leaving the club after his shift however, Yuri darts out of the same alley to walk beside him. He speeds up, but Yuri just starts jogging intermittently to keep up with him.

“Why do you wear so much makeup?” he demands.

Yuuri says nothing, just continues walking.

“Why do you wear heels?”

Nothing.

Yuri jogs up to his side.

“I saw,” he declares, “Almost all of the other male dancers don’t wear heels or makeup.”

Yuuri stops abruptly. The boy runs into the back of legs, then takes a step back, scowl deepening.

“I wear makeup because I like it,” Yuuri says flatly, “I wear heels because I like it. Some people have a problem with that. Are you one of them?”

Yuri just scowls even deeper and tucks his chin into his chest.

He doesn’t say anything else, so with another sigh, Yuuri continues walking. Yuri jogs along.

“Stop following me,” Yuuri snaps, and then breaks into a brisk walk.

The boy has to break into a run to keep up, which he maintains for a bit, before apparently deciding to give up. Yuuri slows as he falls behind, turning furtively to watch the boy as he heads for the subway. As he’s about the head down into the station however, he hears something that makes him turn right back around.

“Aren’t you Yuri Plisetsky?” someone's crooning delightedly, “What are you doing in the red-light district?”

“Go away.”

“Not without a picture of your pretty face.”

“No pictures. No comment.”

“Come over here, sweetheart.”

“No! Let go! Stop it!”

One block back, there’s a man with a camera gripping Yuri Plisetsky by the wrist. Paparazzi. The boy is turned away from the camera, scowling furiously, but underneath the frown— the boy looks _terrified._

“Hey!” Yuuri shouts, running back against his better judgment, “What do you think you’re doing?”

He pushes the camera away with one hand, and manages to scoop Yuri into his side with the other, pressing the boy’s face into his waist so that it can’t be seen. The man is still holding tightly to Yuri’s wrist, and is following Yuri’s hidden face with greedy eyes.

“Let go of him,” Yuuri says lowly.

The man pulls his eyes from Yuri reluctantly, and smirks at him.

“No need to be so antagonistic, sugar.”

He pulls at Yuri’s wrist, and the boy yelps in pain.

“You’re hurting him.”

“A photo won’t hurt him.”

Yuuri straightens up, and _glares._

“I’ll have you know,” he says coldly, “That you’re breaking the law by doing this. He’s a minor, and this is harassment. You _do not touch him,_ you hear me? I _will_ have you prosecuted.”

The man scowls, but lets go and turns to leave. His eyes catch on the heels hanging from Yuuri’s duffle bag. He sneers.

“Slut,” he spits over his shoulder, “You’re just a no-good whore from around here, aren’t you?”

“Piss off,” Yuuri bites back.

He keeps Yuri’s face pressed into his side until they duck into the next alley. He bends on one knee to look the boy in the eye. He’s scowling still, but his eyes are a little wet.

“I wasn’t scared,” Yuri says immediately, “I didn’t need your help.”

“I know. You’re very brave,” Yuuri says, putting a hand on his head with a small sigh, “But sometimes its nice to have help even when you don’t need it.”

Yuri crosses his arms, looking away to the side, but he doesn’t dispute that.

“Where are you staying now?” Yuuri asks.

“The Ritz Carlton at Central Park,” Yuri mumbles, and _of course_ he’d be staying there. Only the best for Russia’s mini champion-to-be.

Yuuri takes his phone out and calls an Uber. It feels weird dialing the Ritz Carlton as his destination, but he manages. Finally, he sits down on the curb, and pats the pavement next to him. Yuri joins him to wait.

 

* * *

 

When they walk into the hotel lobby, it is to general chaos. There are staff milling everywhere in their black and white suits, guests gathering curiously along the lift lobby, the policemen standing around looking serious. At the center of it all, there’s a man in a t-shirt and sleeping pants, bare-foot, clutching at his silver hair. It’s Viktor.

He turns when the doors open, eyes widening when he sees Yuri.

“Yura!” he cries, and runs over to scoop the boy into his arms, saying something fast and sharp in Russian.

Yuuri tries to leave them to their reunion, taking the chance to escape, but Yuri is having none of that. He tightens his grip on Yuuri’s wrist, glaring defiantly up at him from Viktor’s arms. Yakov Feltsman is talking to the police somewhere behind them, but Yuuri loses sight of him as Viktor straightens, pinning Yuuri with his impossibly blue eyes.

“Oh my god,” he says, and then looks down to snap something at Yuri in furious Russian. He turns back to Yuuri apologetically. “I’m so sorry he went to bother you. Believe me, I’ve told him countless times not to do that.”

“You were pining,” Yuri interjects.

Viktor shifts his arm so that it’s covering the boy’s mouth.

“Is there any way I can make it up to you?” Viktor pleads, “I could buy you dinner?”

But Yuuri just groans.

“Nice try, Casanova,” he says, “I'm a stripper. You think I’m falling for a line like that?”

Yuri's grip has loosened on his wrist so he manages to pull free.

“Wait, I’m sorry,“ Viktor is saying, “I swear that wasn’t a line— _Yuuri!”_

Yuuri's already walking back out into the night.

 

 

It’s only later that he realises that Viktor had called out to him by his real name.

 

* * *

 

Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, however, has to be some kind of fucking message from above. And so the third time he’s dropped, quite literally, into Viktor Nikiforov’s lap, he gives in— but not first without a fight.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groans, getting up from where he’d tripped, and fallen, neatly, into the man’s lap— “Are you stalking me or something?”

The man oh-so-helpfully steadies the hand Yuuri’s using to hold onto his coffee. Most of his coffee is already gone all over the floor anyway. Yuuri quickly bends down, snatching up some old newspapers from the stand to wipe the mess up.

“I—” Viktor begins, bewildered, “What?”

Yuuri looks up, scowling.

“That’s what I should be asking,” he turns back on Viktor, _“What_ are _you_ doing here?”

Viktor bends down too to help him clean up.

“I go for physical therapy here,” he says, “For my ankle.”

“I know that’s a lie because I’ve been coming for therapy for my shoulder here. I’ve been here for two months— _two!_ and I haven't seen you once.”

“I just landed in New York a few days ago!” Viktor protests, “Lilia knows the doctor.”

Lilia Baranovskaya is who he’s probably talking about. A prima ballerina, and Yakov Feltsman’s ex-wife.

Yuuri slaps his palm to his forehead with sudden realisation.

“Ana!” he says, and then, “Lilia!” and finally, “Bloody Russians!”

“Erm,” Viktor begins.

“Do you all just know each other or something?” Yuuri demands, and then sighs, flopping into the neat next to Viktor— there’s no other seat available anyway.

Silence.  
  
Yuuri turns discreetly to look at Viktor. He has this look on his face, vaguely frightened, as if he wants to say something but is too afraid to speak, and— _w_ _ell,_ Yuuri can't blame him. Yuuri hasn't exactly been friendly towards him. Somehow, he'd felt justified in that then, but it just makes him feel bad now. He turns his face back into his cup, lowering his eyes so that he doesn't have to meet Viktor's.

“The Madame asked me today why a child came looking for me at work, you know?” he mumbles into the remaining drops of his split coffee, “Two days in a row.”

Viiktor watches him, wary, then seems to gauge that he’s not too upset about that, because he smiles, cautiously. He has a sweet smile.

“I’m really, really sorry about that Yuuri,” he says, and then, a little more hesitantly, “Will you please let me buy you a coffee? To replace the one you spilt?”

And the thing is that his smile is very sweet, and his eyes are very blue.

“Fine,” Yuuri says, “After this.”

Viktor's smile widens.

 

They go for coffee, and Yuuri learns. He learns about Viktor’s poodle, Makkachin, who is his only family in the world. He learns about St. Petersburg, how the gulls call, constantly, and how Viktor loves watching the waves crash to shore in the mornings. He learns how Viktor, when he smiles genuinely, has a heart-shaped smile. He learns how Viktor has a widow’s peak that he hates, and how he shadows it with makeup.

He learns how, for some reason, Viktor looks at him like he’s the sun and the stars and the moon all in one, and treats him like something inconceivably precious.

And Viktor — the real Viktor — is really no Casanova. He’s actually kind of a dork, and flusters surprisingly easily. He blushes the whole way through their coffee date.

At the end, Viktor walks the whole way home with him. He pretends he’s walking the same way so he can talk to Yuuri longer, blue eyes shining and heart-shaped smile flashing, but he forgets that Yuuri knows where he’s staying. Central Park is the other way.

But Yuuri is charmed, charmed enough to play along— charmed enough that when he’s finally gotten home and closed the door behind him, he can only lean back against it, breathing deep as he runs his fingers slowly through his hair.

A gradual smile begins to spread helplessly across his lips.

“Oh, Phichit,” he murmurs, to the empty apartment, “I’m in trouble now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to give you all a heads-up! This is probably going to be the last update for this fic for the year. I've joined Big Bang On Ice, and am working on a really long fic for that (I'm thinking at least 40k words), which will probably be out around Jan/Feb next year. I can't tell you guys what it's about, but it's going to be an AU, and there's going to be lots of mystery and action! I hope you guys will read that when it comes out.
> 
> Finally, in the comments I realise that many of you have been watching competitive pole videos and looking for more to watch! The first link in this chapter is linked to Bendy Kate's winning performance of At Last. Bendy Kate is one of my favorite polers, and another is Polina Volchek. I love her style. For those who are interested, I definitely recommend you watch Bendy Kate's performance [(linked again here)](https://youtu.be/NV_zbt7ycUc?t=16s) and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-lwX_GQ5KYI) performance of Polina Volchek.
> 
> Update: I actually updated this from a place where I had limited computer access and so have not really edited as much as I should have before updating. I went through it again after publishing and edited all the mistakes and strange turn of phrases, but if you guys spot anything going through, please don't hesitate to tell me in the comments! Sorry to all the people who read the chapter before the edits.


	5. but how much drama is too much drama?

He emerges from the subway onto fifty-seventh street, and takes off at a fast trot down a familiar shortcut. He checks the time on his phone screen, and mutters a little curse, before speeding up. He's five minutes late now — and counting.

Self-consciously, he runs his hand through his hair, trying to tame a stray flyaway as he turns onto the next street. Up ahead, he can see the familiar storefront of his favorite cafe, and a familiar head of silver hair through the window. Viktor’s face lights up with a look of pure delight as Yuuri trots by, waving apologetically.

Yuuri turns away as Viktor stands, and ducks through the door of the cafe.

“Hey, Yuuri!” the barista on duty greets, looking up from her coffee-making with a smile, “Your friend’s sitting at the back already.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri returns, a little breathless from his brisk-walking, and then heads into the back of the cafe where Viktor is still standing, smiling as bright as the sun. “Sorry I’m late,” Yuuri says, smiling as he slides into the chair opposite Viktor and shucks his coat off, “Why are you standing?"

Viktor sits immediately.

His smile has dimmed a little in intensity, but he still looks vaguely pleased, his eyes wide and blue and fixed immovably on Yuuri. Yuuri can't help but grin a little in return.

“How's your week been?” Yuuri asks warmly.

“Better now that I've seen you,” Viktor replies immediately, and then flushes a little. Yuuri has found that his pale complexion renders even the lightest of blushes obvious. It's very endearing.

“I’m,” Yuuri starts, a little more shyly, “Really glad to see you too.”

Viktor’s grin widens.

Their conversation is broken for a moment by the arrival of the barista. She sets a pot of sencha down on Yuuri’s right, and then heads back behind the counter. Yuuri pours himself a cup, takes a careful sip. He makes a face, as usual, at the bland bitter taste of it.

“You never like the tea here,” Viktor notes, “But you order it every time.”

“I've stopped drinking coffee recently,” Yuuri explains, “I _do_ like tea, but the tea is a lot better in Japan than it is in most places here. I knew of some good tea places back in LA, but I'm still new to New York so…”

He’s been trying to wean off coffee under his therapist’s advice. The caffeine’s not good for his anxiety. There's probably still some caffeine in the tea, but it definitely doesn't make him as anxious as coffee does.

Viktor is tapping away at his phone. After a moment, he turns it around to show Yuuri a photo. It's a candid shot of Yuri, scowling, his eyelids smudged artlessly with shimmery grey eyeshadow. He looks like a very glittery, very disgruntled raccoon.

“You really made an impression on him, you know,” Viktor laughs, “Mila caught him using her makeup in the locker room today. It looks like he was trying to do it how you usually do your makeup.”

Yuuri groans, putting his face in his hands in embarrassment.

“I am _the_ worst role-model for a thirteen-year-old,” he laments, “I hope Yakov isn't _too_ angry.”

Viktor shrugs amicably.

“He’ll be fine,” he says.

Yuuri sits up.

“Speaking of which,” he says, “When are you guys heading back to St. Petersburg? You've been here for weeks already. Don't you guys have to go back to train?”

“Ah,” Viktor begins, and then smiles, “The date hasn't been settled yet. Either way, we have plenty of time so — let’s not count down the days, shall we?”

“Of course not,” Yuuri agrees. He's found that Viktor seems to dim a little around the subject of his departure. Yuuri can't blame him. He really doesn't like the idea of Viktor leaving either, even though he knows it's going to happen sooner or later. He doesn't like thinking about it, and Viktor _really_ doesn't like talking about it.

He quickly drops the subject, and it gets washed away under the tide of Viktor’s excited questions about his day.

 

 

 

“Hey,” Phichit greets nonchalantly as Yuuri arrives back at their apartment, flushed and smiling and bright-eyed, “Coffee date with Viktor?”

“It wasn't a date,” Yuuri corrects automatically.

“Right — and I’m the queen of England.”

 _“Phichit,”_ Yuuri huffs, hanging his coat up in their coat closet, before dropping his bag, and jumping onto the couch beside Phichit.

“What?” Phichit teases, “You guys are totally dating. Are you guys confident going long distance once he leaves?”

 _“Phichit,”_ Yuuri sighs again, “We aren't dating. We were just— having a friendly chat.”

“Right,” Phichit deadpans, “Your regular thrice-weekly ‘friendly’ chat over coffee. Sounds like every other friendship I know of.”

Yuuri chuckles.

Truth be told, he had sort of expected that something would happen after the first time they had met up. It's been nearly a month since then, however, and nothing. No hugging. No kissing — not even on the cheek. Viktor hasn't even tried to hold his hand. He's beginning to think that he’d read Viktor’s intentions wrongly from the beginning. Or perhaps they've slid into the friend-zone now that Viktor’s gotten to know him better as a person rather than as a stripper.

Yuuri is honestly beginning to suspect that he's lost Viktor’s interest again, and Viktor is just too nice to say so. He's not even sure how he's managed to keep Viktor’s interest for so long this time, and the thought makes him slightly morose. Viktor had forgotten him quickly enough the last time. Yuuri has no idea what he'd done to grab his attention this time.

He sighs, and shakes his head slightly.

“Either way,” he continues, “Viktor's not leaving for awhile. I asked him today.”

“That’s pretty strange,” Phichit comments, “Isn't he supposed to be training for the next season?”

“That's what I thought!” Yuuri agrees, “But it seems like all of them are stilling hanging around New York? He mentioned Mila today, so I think she's here too with Yuri and Georgi.”

“Maybe they are here because of his ankle,” Phichit speculates, “But he's going to need to start training for Russian Nationals soon if he's planning on making a comeback next season.”

“That's what I thought,” Yuuri sighs.

They stare at the TV for a while in silence, not really processing it. It's playing some Spanish sitcom, and neither of them understand Spanish.

“And how did training go?” Phichit asks after a moment, changing the topic.

Yuuri sighs again.

“I’m still choosing my music,” he mumbles.

He's been training hard since he'd been cleared for physical activity, and he's been starting to think about choreographing a new competition piece for Noémie to look through. National qualifiers are coming up again soon. It's time. The big dilemma, however, is his music.

There's some part of him that thinks it would be a good idea to adapt the Stammi Vicino piece he'd choreographed to make it a competition standard piece. It had been pretty well-received on social media, and it wouldn't be hard to adapt.

But there's _another_ part of him that feels uncomfortable with the idea of it. The music isn't his. It would always be Viktor’s first. Some part of him rebels at the thought of defining his post-injury self in terms of Viktor. Some part of him wants to strive for the better, to surpass Viktor’s wildest imagination, to surpass _everyone’s_ wildest imagination, to go down in history as _himself_ and nobody else.

No longer Eros. No longer the Yuuri who'd desperately striven to be good enough to be noticed by Viktor. Just Yuuri, a Yuuri worthy enough to finally be comfortable in his own skin — no, to be _proud_ in his own skin, the way he's never been.

The thought is embarrassingly ambitious, but still it lingers at the back of his mind, unvoiced.

“Ciao Ciao finally thinks I'm ready for my senior debut,” Phichit confesses.

He's not looking at Yuuri, but his eyes are gleaming, proud. Yuuri grins.

“That's amazing news!” he cries.

“Thanks,” Phichit chuckles.

They're moving up in the world now, Yuuri can't help but think to himself. It's time.

It's time.

 

* * *

  

Yuuri is spinning lazily around the pole, in the middle of experimenting with a new transition, when Noémie comes in with a small, blonde lady.

“Yuuri,” she greets, surprised, “I didn't know you were practicing in here.”

Yuuri unwinds himself from the pole immediately and lowers himself to his feet.

“I was in the class that ended in here some time ago,” he admits sheepishly, “I’ll just get out of your hair now.”

“Yuuri,” Noémie calls as he scurries past her, “Wait for me outside. I need to talk to you.”

He nods, and then closes the door quietly behind him.

Noémie comes out some time later with the blonde woman in tow. The woman has a shy, hunched in demeanor, and a bit of an overbite when she smiles unsurely at Yuuri. She heads straight for the shelves behind Yuuri and pulls a pair of jeans on over her pole shorts, shrugs a coat on over it.

“Thanks for having me,” she says to Noémie quietly.

“I’ll be in contact if you're shortlisted,” Noémie replies.

The bell jingles over the door as the woman leaves, her head bobbing through the glass door as she heads down the stairs. Noemie sighs, and massages the space between her brows tiredly.

“Is everything alright?” Yuuri asks, timid.

Noémie just sighs again.

“One of our instructors put in notice for her resignation last week. Her husband is moving for work and she's moving with him. The problem is she’s teaching two beginner term classes this term, and there's no one available to take over her classes when she leaves next term. I've had no luck finding a replacement either.” She turns to shoot him a tired grin. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Me?” Yuuri asks, surprised.

“Yes.”

Noemie smiles.

“Would you like to try taking over those classes?” she asks, “I know this is really sudden, and you'll need to take a basic certification course, but I’ll pay you for it, and you’ll have free reign of the studio on the evenings after your classes.”

“I’ve never taught pole before,” Yuuri says reluctantly, “I don't think I'm good enough—”

“You’re a great deal better than all the candidates I’ve seen,” Noémie cuts in, “The certification course should help, but I've seen you helping the beginners during open practice.” She smiles. “I really think you can do this.”

Something inside him warms at the steady confidence in Noémie’s voice, her surety. This is uncharted territory for him but if she thinks he can do it—

“Alright,” he says, “I’ll do it.

 

 

 

The course is an online course. After he pays for it, he gets access to manuals, videos, a syllabus of basic moves and how to teach them. There's a theory exam that he passes after a week of intense cramming, before he submits his lesson plans and a video of a mock lesson. After that, he keeps his fingers crossed, and takes to practicing to take his mind off of things as he waits nervously for his evaluation to be completed.

_(“These are good lesson plans,” Noémie had commented when he'd showed them to her, “There's really no need to be so nervous.”)_

But his mind always goes straight to the worst-case scenario. He tries to tell himself it's the anxiety speaking, but his nervousness must show, because Phichit buys a tub of Neapolitan ice cream back that week, and stuffs his face with Yuuri on the couch as they watch old reruns of skating competitions.

At the end of the week, someone catches him by the shoulder as he exits the subway heading towards his usual cafe.

It's Viktor.

“I thought we could go somewhere else today,” he says cheerfully.

They take a short stroll down to fifty-fifth street, huddled together under a large black umbrella. It's raining lightly, the Manhattan lights reflecting in neon off the wet asphalt as people duck under various awnings to escape the rain. When Yuuri puts his hand in the crook of Viktor’s elbow, pressing up close to stay in the shelter of the umbrella, Viktor turns to him and smiles— and in that moment, Yuuri almost dares to think that Viktor had been waiting for him to do something like that.

“Here we are,” Viktor says finally, and folds up the umbrella in front of a little glass door. Behind it, a short flight of stairs lead up into the shop.

They sit down in a little corner of the shop, surrounded by shelves and shelves of books. The quiet sounds of a water feature somewhere out of sight and the fragrant scent of tea fills the room with a calm serenity. When the waiter comes with the menu, it is in English and Mandarin. Yuuri can make out quite a bit of the Mandarin. It seems they serve a vast assortment of Japanese and Chinese teas.

“You once said that drinking tea with your family back home always helped when you were stressed about something,” Viktor explains nervously, “I know you don't think much of the tea at our usual cafe, and you seemed to have something on your mind all week, so when I found some really good reviews about this place I just thought—”

Yuuri laughs as Viktor trips over his own words in his nervousness, and reaches out to put his hand over Viktor’s clenched fist.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

And shyly, Viktor smiles.

 

 

 

His teaching certificate comes in the mail, signed and watermarked with the International Pole Dance Federation logo. Phichit comes back with a frame for it the very next day, and puts it up on the wall behind the TV along with their degrees, and Phichit’s skating medals.

“I'm so proud of my adopted Japanese son,” he says, pretending to wipe a tear away.

“I’m older than you,” Yuuri points out.

Phichit shooshes him.

“I'm so proud of my adopted Japanese son,” he says again, reaching for a tissue to fake-blow his nose.

Yuuri gets the feeling that this is another one of Phichit’s internet memes, and decides to let it go without further question.

 

 

 

The night before his first class, he reaches for the pole with shaking hands, staring himself down in the mirrors of his living room. He mentally rehearses the tricks he will be teaching, breaking them down into small, simple steps.

He breathes in, then breathes out, slow.

_He can do this._

 

 

 

“Alright,” he says as he gets up from his butterfly stretch the next day, smiling at the class he’ll be teaching, “I’m sure your usual instructor has already told you that she’d be leaving the studio, so I’ll be taking over from here on. Please be kind to me.”

He starts them off with a less intense version of his usual warm-up. Jumping jacks, tuck jumps, a few stretches to loosen and warm up the shoulders, planks, and then mountain-climbers.

The class is already groaning, and Yuuri can't help the surprised laughter that comes out of him.

“Tired already?” he asks, and gets a resounding _yes._ “Save some energy for the burpees,” he says, to another round of groans. He shakes his head, still chuckling.

 _So this was how Ana felt when she was driving us all nuts counting down the planks so slowly_ , he thinks to himself.

After the warm-up ends, the class flops over onto their backs, groaning, but laughing breathlessly through the groans. Yuuri gets up and grabs the pole up at the front of the class, jutting one hip out with a grin.

“Ready for some conditioning?” he asks.

The class groans again.

“Please be kind to me,” a large Latina woman mocks good-naturedly from the back of the class, and the class laughs, “I won't be able to pull my own pants up by the end of this.”

Yuuri grins.

“Come on,” he teases, “Up on your feet!”

With another round of breathless laughter, the class complies.

 

 

 

**Hide reviews…**

★★★★★  
This is one of the better pole studios I've been to, and I’ve been to some pretty good ones in major cities all over the world. Definitely try to get the head instructor, Noemie, if you're signing up for one of the advanced classes. If you're signing up for beginner classes, I’ve generally enjoyed dropping in on Yuuri’s term classes. He's new, but he’s really good at explaining the steps. He's the instructor I wish I had when I was a beginner.

★★★★☆  
Four stars because the location is a little bit hard to find (it's on the second floor and you have to ring to get in from the ground level) but otherwise an amazing studio! I've just begun a beginner class with Yuuri Katsuki, and it's been a real workout. My abs have never looked this good.

★★★★★  
POLE HAS DONE AMAZING, EXTRAORDINARY, DELICIOUS THINGS TO MY BODY. It really doesn’t hurt that the beginner instructor is patient, merciless, and also ridiculously easy on the eyes.

★★★★★  
I've had to relocate studios since I moved from Pennsylvania to New York for work, and I DEFINITELY recommend Yuuri’s class. I've been struggling to get my basic inverts for literally 8 months, and Yuuri has really helped me to break down the steps, understand the movement, and given me a really good set of conditioning exercises to get me upside down and spinning. I got my first invert last week and it was exhilarating. I'm so glad I can finally graduate from beginners and advance to an intermediate level class.

★★★★☆  
I follow Pole Weekly on Instagram and I was really surprised when Yuuri Katsuki took over my beginner class in the middle of the term??? He was rated most promising newcomer for the World Championships last year, and damn does he deserve it. He definitely tones it down during classes, but he'll sometimes improvise some routines if the class whines for it for long enough, and he's really really good! I did think it was a little unprofessional to change instructors so suddenly halfway through the term, but I'm enjoying Yuuri’s class so I suppose I can't complain too much.

 

* * *

 

They walk together all the way up to the discreet entrance of Madam Rouge’s, and stand there, under the awning, for a few moments. Viktor looks like he's trying to muster up something to say. Yuuri _wishes_ he had something to say, _anything_ to say so that they could stay together, even if just a moment longer. But he's almost late for his shift now. Their time is up.

“So I guess,” Yuuri begins reluctantly, “I’ll see you next week?”

“You sure I can't come in to watch you dance for awhile?” Viktor asks, tone joking, but eyes serious.

Yuuri shakes his head.

“I'm working,” he says, “You’ll just distract me.”

Viktor grins. There's a blush rising up to the surface of his skin as he looks down at their feet.

“I distract you?” he asks, clearly pleased.

“No comment,” Yuuri diverts, and leans in to give Viktor a quick goodbye hug.

He closes his eyes as he buries his face into Viktor’s shoulder, savoring the comforting scent of his cologne. There's a moment where he almost thinks he feels Viktor pressing a kiss into his hair, but it's over too quickly and too soon, they are drawing reluctantly away from one another.

“I guess I'll see you next week then,” Viktor says, and opens his black umbrella.

Yuuri watches him until his suited back vanishes around the corner, and then sinks back into the wall with a sigh. He quickly shakes off the disappointment, and heads into the club. The slow crooning of a burlesque singer swallows him up in a sensual beat.

When he emerges from the dressing area, costume on and his makeup done, he’s snagged immediately by one of the waitstaff.

“One of your regulars is here,” he whispers, and nods in the direction of one of the VIP rooms, “He’s been asking for you since he arrived.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri says, and balances the tray of drinks that the bartender slides across the counter to him in one hand.

“Ayyy!” his regular calls as he enters the room, holding up an empty glass, “Eros is here!”

Yuuri can't help but smile once he sees who it is. He's actually pretty fond of this regular— a young, boyishly charming man who works at one of the big banks on Wall Street. Yuuri has served a fair number of Wall Street bankers in his time here, and liked very few of them. This regular, however, has always been cheerful and polite. He's been the source of much bashful giggling amongst the other strippers.

“Miguel,” Yuuri greets warmly, “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Sit, sit,” the man calls, patting the spot next to him, “Have I introduced you to my client?”

There's a number of other suited men in the room, two of whom Yuuri recognizes, and politely waves to, and the rest a bunch of unfamiliar faces.

Yuuri sets the tray of drinks down on the table, sits down, and smiles his customer-facing smile.

 

 

 

By closing time, the rest of the men have left, but his regular remains, downing the last of his whisky with a sigh. Yuuri automatically reaches over to fill his glass.

“And one for you too,” the man says, gesturing towards Yuuri’s glass.

Yuuri pours himself a finger.

The man is tapping a knuckle against his thigh, in time with the bass of the music, tired with obvious shadows under his eyes, but somehow still unwaveringly cheerful and filled with a sort of restless energy.

“So what did you think of today’s client?” he asks suddenly.

Yuuri blinks, setting down the bottle and putting his hands back in his lap.

“He was,” he begins carefully, “Alright.”

“He was a right asshole,” his regular says, and laughs, shaking his head, “I'm sorry about how he treated you.”

He reaches over and bumps Yuuri in the arm lightly with his fist. Yuuri smiles a little, amused.

“It's alright. I'm used to a certain level of assholery by now.”

The man stretches, chuckling, before draping one arm over the seat behind Yuuri.

“You deserve to be treated better than that, Eros,” he says, “You’re smart. You're good-looking. You're a heck of a dancer. And you're a really great guy to top it all off.”

He turns to look at Yuuri with playful brown eyes, but there's something oddly serious in his manner for once. Yuuri stiffens a little, instincts telling him that something's about to happen.

“I've been meaning to ask for awhile,” the man continues, “Do you want to take this outside the club? I'll pay you of course. You set the price. You're great, and funny, and sexy. I think it’ll be a lot of fun. Just for one night— what do you say?”

Yuuri bites his lip.

The thing is— if he’d been asked a couple of months back, Yuuri would probably have said yes. He knows of many other strippers who’ve taken offers for more outside the club. It's a pretty lucrative business, and this regular has always treated him with respect. Yuuri _does_ think that they would have had fun. Now, however…

Yuuri shakes his head slowly, apologetic.

“I'm sorry,” he says, “It’s just that I…well...”

But the man just laughs it off.

“You know, Eros,” he says, leaning amiably back in his seat, loose and mellow with the whisky in his system, “You've changed a lot lately — a little more distant, but a lot more happier. You’ve kinda fallen out of the Eros persona actually.”

Yuuri blinks, surprised. The man turns to him with a knowing wink.

“Has the person behind Eros finally found someone?”

Yuuri looks down into his lap, bashful. He can feel the blush rising quickly to his cheeks.

“We’re not together,” he says quickly.

“Not _yet,_ ” his regular teases, before sobering. “But really,” he says more seriously, “I’ve seen more than a few strippers get hollowed out by their personas. After a couple years, it's like they've become shallow, materialistic shells of their former selves. I suppose it's because they get exposed to the worst of humanity in places like this, and give up on making meaningful relationships after a time.”

He smiles.

“I’m glad that hasn't happened to you.”

Yuuri smiles back, touched.

The man downs his glass and reaches for the bottle of whisky.

“Well,” he says, “It’s getting late. Come help me finish the rest of this, then I should probably go home and catch a few hours of rest. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

Yuuri nods, and reaches for his glass.

“Tomorrow’s a new day,” he agrees quietly.

 

* * *

 

**PEREZ HILTON: Viktor Nikiforov — Missing in Action?!**

Beginning with the World Figure Skating Championships last year, figure skating’s very own living legend and Russian heartthrob, Viktor Nikiforov, has been through a rollercoaster of scandal and bad press. Spotted indulging at various red-light districts , things hit the fan when he was  caught with a minor, thirteen-year-old rinkmate Yuri Plisetsky, in Los Angeles’ red-light district  days before the Winter Olympics earlier this year. An  ankle injury during the individual free-skate  soon led to him taking a season off, resulting in a months-long silence from his end. (Save for a single instance of him being  thrown out of a strip-club in Manhattan for rowdy behavior.)

But now, with Nationals drawing near, the press is starting up again. Nikiforov will have to compete at the Russian Nationals this December if he hopes to qualify for the Grand Prix Series next season. Earlier in the year, his coach, Yakov Feltsman,  said at a press conference that Nikiforov was scheduled to recover in time  , and that they had already resumed light practice. However, as  comprehensively covered here in Комсомо́льская пра́вда , a Russian tabloid newspaper, there have been strange warning signs that something is not quite right.

  1. Despite camping outside Nikiforov’s home rink for two weeks, one tabloid reporter failed to see Nikiforov entering the rink even once. His coach, Yakov Feltsman, and rinkmates, Yuri Plisetsky, Mila Babicheva, and Georgi Popovich have been spotted coming and going, meaning that they have returned from their various competitions overseas, and yet there’ve been no sightings of Russia’s national hero.
  2. Another reporter hid for three days outside of Nikiforov’s apartment complex. Even though the estate is gated, she had a clear view of Nikiforov’s bedroom window from the park nearby. She reported that not only did she not see Nikiforov leaving the apartment during those three days, but the lights did not come on at all in his bedroom during that time.
  3. Another tabloid reporter managed to enter the gated estate under the pretense of being a visitor, and released this photograph of Nikiforov’s mailbox, overflowing with unread letters. It seems that he hasn't been home in awhile.
  4. And lastly, paparazzi have released pictures of Nikiforov’s beloved poodle being walked by rinkmate, Yuri Plisetsky, in the area surrounding Yakov Feltsman’s suburban home. Plisetsky has been living with Feltsman since moving from Moscow, which highly suggests that Nikiforov’s poodle is currently in Feltsman’s care.



The Russian tabloids have been speculating for months, but with these findings, it seems clear that Viktor Nikiforov is not in St. Petersburg, nor has he been for awhile. But that just raises a host of other questions. Will he be competing in the coming season? Has he decided to leave Feltsman’s tutelage? Most importantly, where in the world is he hiding now? The rumors have varied from unkind to simply out of this world.

Some believe he may be in rehab following gossip of possible drug-addiction, while others believe he may have been quietly hospitalized after a nervous breakdown following his injury at the Olympics. More yet believe he may be the victim of an enforced disappearance, caught up in government conspiracy with the Russian Skating Federation to silence him after his ankle injury. There have even been a number of detailed fan analysis of recent photos of Nikiforov, suggesting that he's been replaced by an impersonator for the last year and a half.

What do _you_ think? Is Nikiforov truly missing in action? Has he left Feltsman’s tutelage? Where in the world is Viktor Nikiforov!? Leave a comment telling us what you think!

 

**View more comments...**

Melanie Nguyen  : I think you guys are blowing this WAY out of proportion. Do people just not have any respect for privacy these days? All I see here are sensationalist paparazzi stalking and trespassing on private property. Give him a break!

Anonymous: well, celebrities chose to surrender their privacy when they gave up normal lives for fame. i don't see what's the big problem here.

Sarah Frances: Viktor Nikiforov is not a celebrity. He is an ATHLETE. He's a national hero and a genius at his sport. He’s broken 17 world records in men’s figure skating. He’s not some Kylie Jenner or Taylor Swift, he's an Olympic Champion! Do people just not respect that?

Anonymous: OKAY but that fan analysis about him being an imposter is some next level illuminati shit? Like I’m so paranoid now. ILLUMINATI CONFIRMED.

Anonymous: i bet he was doping and now that hes injured and cant skate anymore the russian government needs to shut him up

Anonymous: Honestly guys? He’s probably in rehab. Those eyebags don't lie.

 

 

 

“Yuuri,” Phichit calls, rapping once on the bedroom doorway.

Yuuri looks up from his laptop. There's an oddly serious look on Phichit’s face as he passes his phone to Yuuri, some kind of news article on it.

“I think you need to see this.”

 

* * *

 

The rain pours down in sheets. Yuuri turns his face briefly up to the sky, before huddling back against the building wall. The awning shelters him from the most of the rain, but the splashback from the drops hitting the floor in front of him has soaked him from the knees down. It's been an unusually rainy week in New York City.

“Yuuri!” Viktor cries, emerging suddenly out of Central Park with his large, black umbrella, blue eyes wide with concern as he patters across the pedestrian crossing towards Yuuri, “You’re soaked!”

Yuuri puts his face into his hands and takes a deep breath.

“Viktor,” he says, once he’s collected himself, “Why are you _here?”_

Viktor stops in front of him, brows knitted together in confusion.

“What do you m—”

“I know you aren't here with Yakov and Yuri,” he snaps, “I know they've gone back to train. So why are you here?”

Viktor winces, and then looks down at his feet.

“I know I've led you to believe that I was training here with the others,” he begins guiltily, and then looks up to give Yuuri a pleading look, “But that was because I didn't want you to worry! I'm still training by myself at a rink nearby, and I've been consulting Yakov by Skype, but—”

Yuuri digs the heel of his palm into his eyes.

“How is that supposed to help you get back in shape for Nationals?! You'd be doing better if you went back to Russia. I just don't understand!”

“Don't you?” Viktor bites back, seeming a little hurt, “Don't you know how serious I am about you? This isn't a big mystery, Yuuri. You know how I feel about you.”

The ill-timed admission strikes through Yuuri’s heart like a bullet. The anxiety begins to rise quickly and furiously within him as he shakes his head, as if in denial.

“Are you so arrogant to think,” he says slowly, voice shaking with emotion, “That your competitors won't overtake you with your half-assed training? Is your ego really that big?”

“No,” Viktor answers immediately, “I just don't care anymore if I don't win.”

Yuuri takes a step back at the matter-of-fact declaration, surprised, and only ends up with his back against the wall of the building behind him. Viktor bites his lip and takes a small step closer, giving him a pleading look.

“I’d lost my love for skating,” Viktor confesses suddenly, _desperately_ , “Winning brought no joy. Every year I tried to surprise the audience with some new combination of jumps and spins, and every year it just grew staler and staler. Then I met _you_ , Yuuri, and you brought back all the emotionality I wanted to convey through my skating. _You_ are my inspiration, Yuuri. I need you to skate. Being around you is what brought back my love for skating and I—”

Yuuri just shakes his head more vehemently, because— because it _couldn't_ be. How _could_ it be? The story just doesn't add up. How could Viktor have fallen so desperately in love with him when it's barely been a month? What has Yuuri done to warrant this blind love? How had it come to this?

Viktor’s face falls.

“Why won't you believe me?” he asks in a heartbroken whisper.

Yuuri closes his eyes.

“I wish I could,” he admits, in a tiny voice, “But…”

The memory of Grand Prix comes back to him then, the media-perfect smile on Viktor’s face, dazzling, _shattering—_

_(A commemorative photo?)_

— and the distance that had seemed to yawn between them at that moment in time, heartaching, heartbreaking, wider and wider with a sea of strangers between them like oceans, worlds, galaxies—

Yuuri turns, tearing his eyes sharply away from the tears that have begun to build in Viktor’s impossible blue eyes.

“But it just doesn't make sense,” he finishes.

“Yuuri,” Viktor sobs from behind him, helplessly, confusedly.

Yuuri tucks his head down, and _runs._

_“Yuuri!”_

The sound of devastation stark in that well-loved voice rips through him like a knife, but he does not turn back— does not relent till he's at the top of the stairs descending into the subway station.

When he turns back around, Viktor is still on the corner where Yuuri left him, sitting on the curb with his face in his hands and his umbrella laying discarded on the ground beside him. Yuuri is hit immediately by the urge to run back to his side, but he can't— he needs more time— he just needs more time to _think_.

Drawing his sleeve fiercely over his eyes, he clatters blindly down the stairs and into darkness.

 

 

 

He heads straight for his pole studio. It's dark inside, everyone having long left and locked up behind them, but he has the spare key Noémie gave him, and her blessing to use the studio whenever he wishes.

Inside, he strips down to his boxers, shrugging off his wet clothing, and throws himself into his old competition routine with a vengeance. He picks on every flaw, hammers it out to perfection with relentless ruthlessness, and moves on to new choreography once he's done perfecting the routine. There's a restlessness within him that he lays to rest in the aching burn of his body, the screaming protest of his muscles.

Once he's spent all his creative juices, once the choreography no longer flows from him with ease, he lowers himself to the ground, rolls over into a plank, and begins to count push ups.

He keeps going until his arms are shaking and sweat is dripping into his eyes. When he’s shaking too much to do even one more push up, he relents and flops out into his back, finally exhausted.

He lays there for a moment with his eyes closed, chest heaving, before a quiet beep from his phone alerts him to a new message. He rolls over and onto his feet, and stalks to the corner to get his phone.

**  
are you ready to talk?  
  
**

It’s from Viktor.

For a moment, Yuuri almost considers ignoring him, then he remembers the sincerity in his voice, the desperation, recalls the sight of him, small and heartbroken, sitting curled up on the curb. He bites his lip, and keys in a reply.

 **  
ok. let’s talk.  
** **i’ll call you  
  
**

A reply comes immediately.

 **  
no need** , it says.

And then, after a moment more of typing— **  
**

**i’m outside your studio  
  
**

Yuuri stands up immediately and heads out into the reception. There's someone sitting curled up against the glass of the front door. He turns as Yuuri comes closer.

It's Viktor.

He smiles as Yuuri slows to a halt, standing uncertainly in the middle of the hall.

Finally, Yuuri sits down on the other side of the door, back to the wall and shoulder pressed against the glass, and curls up. They sit there for a moment, mirror images, arms almost touching save for the glass between them, until Yuuri’s phone buzzes again.  


**phichit told you’d be here  
** **i’m sorry to intrude  
  
**

Yuuri frowns.  


**i didn't know you were in contact with phichit  
  
**

Viktor begins to type furiously on the other side.

 **we follow each other on instagram  
** **i messaged him and he gave me the address  
**

He's still typing furiously, so Yuuri just waits.

**i think there's been a big misunderstanding**

**yuuri  
** **i’m serious about you**

**i’ve never been so serious about anyone**

**yuuri  
** **i’ve been serious since we first met**

 **i’ve been serious about you  
** **since two years ago  
  
**

Yuuri drops his phone in surprise, and stands up.

On the other side of the glass, Viktor stares at him with wide eyes, then quickly jumps to his feet and makes way as Yuuri begins to unlock the door.

“Yuuri,” he says immediately, as Yuuri pushes the door open, “I—”

Yuuri presses a finger against his lips.

“Two years ago?” he repeats, disbelievingly, not yet daring to hope.

Viktor nods.

“Phichit said you thought I had forgotten about you,” he says quickly, “But Yuuri,” and he laughs, “ _Yuuri._ How could I forget you? That was— that was the _best night of my life._ I just— I thought you didn't want to see me. After that.”

“I don't understand,” Yuuri says, blankly.

And he doesn't. He doesn't understand what's happening. The best night of his life?

Viktor’s face falls.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, and then curses under his breath, “I know that you were very drunk. It took me a couple of months to realize that you regretted what happened that night, especially when you never called back. I shouldn't have brought it up again. I'm so stupid. I'm sorry.”

“Wait a second,” Yuuri says, closing his eyes, “Called _back?”_

He tries to think back to the morning after they'd first met— _god,_ he’d been so hungover. There had been that Perez Hilton article that clued him in to who Viktor really was, messages, missed calls from home, from friends, from—

— from a strange, foreign number, a number with a country code he hadn't recognized.

“Give me a second,” he says weakly, and then ducks blindly into one of the pole rooms. He puts one hand out, staggering until his fingers brush the nearest wall, then slides down against it — breathing, breathing hard, and proceeds to _freak the fuck out_.

 _“Yuuri,”_ Viktor is calling, voice muted, from someplace far away, and Yuuri reaches out, blindly waving away the hands that are suddenly touching him. _I’m alright,_ he tries to gasp, but it the sound comes out strangled beyond recognition.

“Breathe, Yuuri. Please.”

Yes.

He needs to breathe.

He's just having a panic attack. He's okay. He can control this. _Breathe_ , Yuuri.

_Breathe._

He does a few rounds of an exercise his therapist had taught him, before he feels ready to open his eyes and face the world. When he finally uncurls his body and opens his eyes, however, the first thing he sees is Viktor, brows drawn together and so openly worried that the guilt hits him immediately, followed immediately by dread.

“I need a moment,” Yuuri says weakly, “Can you please…?”

He gestures faintly in the direction of the door, and Viktor scampers out of the room so quickly Yuuri almost doesn't see him leave. Yuuri can hear his footsteps, the creak of the old sofa out in the reception as he sits down outside.

A few rounds of deep breathing exercises later, Yuuri looks up, and finds that Viktor had brought Yuuri’s phone to him. He'd left it on the floor beside him. Hesitantly, Yuuri picks it up, and begins to type.  


**i’m sorry** , he sends.

 **no i’m sorry** , comes the immediate reply.  
**i didn't mean to upset you :(  
  
**

Yuuri closes his eyes again, and presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets until colors flash across the back of his lids. Then he picks his phone up again, once he thinks he can bear to face himself and what he's apparently done.

 **  
viktor no  
** **you don’t understand  
** **i’m really really sorry  
** **i don't know what i did that night  
** **i don’t remember anything  
** **i’m an idiot  
** **god  
** **i’m so sorry  
** **i’ve been so awful to you  
**

**yuuri no  
**

**i’m so so sorry  
  
**

He hears the intake of breath from outside, then the furious drumming of thumbs as Viktor begins to type out a reply.  


**please don't apologize for giving me the best night of my life  
** **yuuri  
** **please don't apologize for making me love you**

**that’s the one thing i could never regret  
  
**

It takes Yuuri a moment to realize that the blurring in his vision is due to the tears falling suddenly down his cheeks. His nose begins to run, and his resulting sniff is embarrassingly loud in the silence of the empty studio.

Viktor’s thumbs begin to drum audibly outside in response.  


**please don't cry** , he pleads  
**please yuuri, don't cry  
** **i’m sorry  
  
**

He thinks back then, far back, a year, a year and a half back. The debut of In Regards To Love: Eros, and Stammi Vicino, the mischievous sensuality and open wonderment, then further on, the fall of silver into Viktor’s eyes at Russian Nationals, the strange misery in his eyes. Then the eye-bags, the weight-loss, the unkind rumors, _god—_ the unkind rumors that had come about from his repeated visits to Yuuri’s strip club back in Los Angeles.

He flashes back to the moment they had met again at the Grand Prix Finals. He’d been hurting too much then to understand the strange sense of loss in Viktor’s eyes as Yuuri had turned away, but it makes sense now. It makes sense now.

The tears begin to spill over again, and Yuuri puts his face back into his hands. How had he managed to so badly misinterpret Viktor? Kind, patient, gentle Viktor, who's never been anything but needlessly generous?

Finally, he picks up his phone again.  


**i don't know i’ll ever be able to make you happy enough  
** **to make up for all the pain i've caused  
  
**

Viktor begins to type. After a moment, he stops. Then he starts again— and stops.

A moment later, a photo comes through.

It's the two of them, dancing together, Viktor with his shirt open and Yuuri mid-laugh.

Another one comes through.

Them swaying in each other's arms, staring into each other's eyes.

A series of photos continue to appear, one by one, and Yuuri can only stare, transfixed. Then, the last one comes in. It's a picture of Yuuri dipping Viktor low, pressed nose-to-nose, with Viktor’s arms around Yuuri’s neck.

They are— laughing.

Freely, with open delight and without a care, they are laughing, their foreheads pressed together and their arms around each other. Viktor’s eyes are closed, his cheeks flushed with honest happiness and his hair tousled and unkempt. Yuuri has never seen him smile like that in any interview or in real life. Yuuri has never seen him laugh like that.  


**you already have  
  
**

Yuuri stands up and walks straight out into the reception. Viktor startles, looking up at him with wide eyes from where he's sitting on the couch with his phone in his hands.

“Yuuri,” he begins, but Yuuri just plants one knee on the sofa, tilts his chin up, and kisses him into silence.

He feels the quiet gasp against his own lips, the desperate grasp of Viktor’s fists in the back of his shirt as Viktor leans forward like a man dying of thirst, eagerly drinking Yuuri in, searching and hungry and desperate. Yuuri holds him just as tightly in return as Viktor kisses him to madness, holds on as if to a life raft.

Finally, Yuuri draws back a little, breathing hard.

“I won't say that I’ve loved you since we first met,” he whispers, “But I will say that the real you is endlessly better than the you I thought I loved, two years ago.”

Viktor’s face crumples, tears beginning to roll down his face. He smiles.

“Take me home with you?” he pleads.

“Your place or mine?” Yuuri asks.

“Yours is nearer.”

It is. Yuuri’s apartment is about a twenty minute walk away. They make the trip with their hands grasped together tightly and pressed between their waists, occasionally turning to one another with flushed smiles, whispering and laughing quietly. They hold each other again in the lift, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed, swaying slightly from side to side, and then pour into Yuuri’s apartment, pressing chaste kisses to one another's lips.

The TV is on, casting a blueish light over the living room, the sounds coming from it muted and otherworldly. Phichit is asleep on the couch, so they make quiet as they sneak into Yuuri’s room.

They slowly undress one another, still kissing chastely, and then climb into bed with their underwear still on. Yuuri counts his blessings for the double bed that had come with the apartment. It's no king bed, but it's enough for two with a bit of a squeeze. He falls asleep to the sound of Viktor’s slowing breaths, arms tight around Viktor’s waist.

 

 

 

Phichit’s eyebrows disappear almost into his hair when Viktor comes out of Yuuri’s room the next morning. He's in one of Yuuri’s shirts, an odd mix off too short for him lengthwise, and too broad for him shoulderwise.

“Good morning,” Viktor greets cheerfully, before all three of them proceed to pick at their breakfasts. It occurs to Yuuri then that all three of them are preparing for various competitions and are on strict diets.

Viktor leaves soon after that for the rink, explaining that he has a scheduled video call with Yakov.

 _“Yuuri got the D!”_ Phichit shrieks the moment the door closes behind him.

Yuuri puts his face in his hands.

“I didn't,” he says, “We just slept together in the most literal sense of the word.”

_“Yuuri is getting the D soon!”_

Yuuri just puts his head down on the table and groans into his arms.

 

 

 

He finds himself at his pole studio soon after that. There are no classes ongoing so early in the morning, but Noémie is sitting at the counter, going through the accounts for the studio with her brows furrowed and a pen between her teeth.

Yuuri makes a beeline for the room he usually teaches and practices in, greeting her shortly. The morning light in comes in through the open windows as he retrieves the key and clicks one of the poles into static mode. Breathing deep, he rolls out a yoga mat and performs a set of sun salutations, eyes closed and breathing in time with each movement. When he's done, he turns to face the pole.

A new choreography itches beneath his skin, swelling up and begging to be released. There's a music in his bones, a music in his veins, and his body sings with it. He grips the pole in one hand, the coldness of the chrome cutting straight to a place deep in him.

This is it.

 _This_ is the choreography he wants to win with.

He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and he _moves._

   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly and very importantly, I forgot to mention this when I posted the last chapter, but I got [amazing fanart by sleepfortress](http://sleepyfortress.tumblr.com/post/163530149878/i-read-just-look-dont-touch-by-ohfudgecakes) on Tumblr that everyone needs to see because they are a) amazing, b) amazing, and c) amazing.
> 
> Secondly, I'm sorry to everyone for the long wait! I took a short hiatus to finish [my submission for the Big Bang on Ice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13522995/chapters/31019412), which has since been posted. For anyone who is interested, it is a canon divergence fic set after the Sochi banquet but before Yuuri skates Stammi Vicino and goes viral, and like this fic, it's got lots of unreliable narrator, misunderstandings, and social media snippets. Warnings for smut in that fic (which I'm sorry, I failed to write in this chapter— but there'll probably be smut when I next update this fic!)
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope you'll leave a comment telling me what you think (or pointing out any typos because, as I've said previously, I do not have a beta for this fic). Thank you all so much for reading!


	6. viktuuri are unproductive for half a chapter, and then are very productive indeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the terribly long wait, everyone. Here is the next chapter!

**phichit+chu**

[A young man with black hair and blue-framed glasses sits on the floor in a full split, elbows on the floor and writing in a notebook. Phichit makes a duck face in the foreground, making a victory sign against his cheek.]

Liked by **v-nikiforov, +guanghongji+, icequeenyuuko** and **29 others  
** sometimes competitive sports means sitting down to do a little math with the best friend @katsuki-yuri #besties #skating #pole

View all 6 comments  
**v-nikiforov** (´ ω `♡)  
**phichit+chu** @v-nikiforov did our dear friend get you into kaomojis  
**v-nikiforov** @phichit+chu ╮(︶▽︶)╭  
**phichit+chu** @v-nikiforov i’m going to take that as a yes

 

 

“Phichit,” Yuuri sighs, “Quit fiddling around with your phone and _concentrate.”_

Across from him, Phichit finally puts his phone down with a groan, and returns to scribbling half-heartedly in his notebook. He’s finally done adding up his base score, but has done little else. Yuuri sighs again. Phichit is _supposed_ to be planning his backup jumps.

He turns his attention back to his own notebook, nibbling at the end of his pencil. He’s got a good chunk of his choreography down now, and _yet—_ he sighs. The choreography he has represents his journey from the start of his career, meeting Viktor for the first time, climbing up to make the finals at the International Pole Championship, injury, recovery, meeting Viktor again, and now, beginning a relationship together.

A smile stretches across his lips at that last thought. It still feels like a dream sometimes, laughing over tea, strolling through Central Park, waking up together in the mornings. He’s discovered that Viktor is the worst kind of blanket hogger, long-limbed and with the grip of a barnacle, but in the morning light, he always looks so peaceful, his hair strewn out over the pillow and glowing like the halo of an angel— belying his true bed-hogging, blanket-grabbing, pillow-stealing nature.

He suppresses his smile, putting a hand over his mouth and turning his attention firmly back down to his notebook. If he’s not careful, Phichit is going to make fun of him for smiling to himself again. He sighs again as he returns his attention to the matter of his choreography.

Truth be told, he’s quickly becoming frustrated with the song he’s chosen. It had taken him weeks of endless searching to find it, and yet it’s still not good enough. There are so many things he wants to do with his routine. The image of it is still there, in his bones, waiting to be released, but the music is holding him back. There are elements that he wants to include that don’t fit the song.

At this point, he’s seriously considering just scrapping the song altogether and starting all over again.

He sighs, again, and decides to take a break. It’s no use working on the choreography when he’s feeling like just tossing the whole thing. Phichit barely looks up as he heads for the pole, swinging his arms in wide circles to loosen up his shoulders. He grabs the pole, and goes straight into the combo he’s planning to teach his class.

Noémie had asked him to take on an intermediate class after his first term had rolled over. It had been a lot less nerve-wracking studying for and preparing the practicum the second time around. His intermediate teaching certificate is now hanging up on the wall beside his basic teaching certificate, his and Phichit’s degrees, and their various medals.

On the floor, Phichit rolls over onto his back listlessly, chucking his notebook aside.

“Want me to video?” he asks.

“Please,” Yuuri says.

After Phichit helps him film the combo, he uploads it to Instagram. Noémie and Phichit have been encouraging him to keep a professional Instagram. It’s good publicity for the studio and for him. A few gigs have already come in for him through the email linked on his Instagram profile.

Comments immediately begin to stream in.

 **angelinaaaa_hart** are you teaching that combo on tuesday???

 **melmelblacksheep** owwww that drop into the inside leg hang looks painful

 **noemie.flessel** love it

On his activity feed, he has four new followers, which had all come in at roughly the same time. He clicks on the name of the most recent one and is directed to her profile. They have a mutual follower. When he goes to the profiles of the other three, they all follow **vertical_artists** . On a hunch, he scrolls down a little more, and finds that he’s recently been tagged in a post by **vertical_artists**.

It’s a photograph of him, taken at a dinner he’s recently performed at.

_Out of all the newcomers to the pole scene, Yuuri has to be one of our ultimate favourites. Going by his stage name, Eros, he dances at Madame Rouge, and teaches at Pol_ _émie on Tuesdays and Thursdays. A tantalizing dancer with a signature erotic flair, he won first runner-up at the US qualifiers, and went on to become a finalist at the International Pole Sport Championships 2010. If you think you can handle the heat, you can find him at @katsuki-yuri._

He closes the app, frowning.

He’s made a big name for himself as Eros, an exotic dancer: erotic, flamboyant, and larger than life. He has generally maintained that styling on his social media platforms. His competition choreography, however, is decidedly of a more contemporary style — his competition choreography is not _about Eros,_ but about _Yuuri._

Not for the first time, he worries if anyone will like just plain old Katsuki Yuuri.

 

 

At noon, he heads out early to meet Viktor. They are meeting at a new coffee shop today. They've been shifting around for awhile, looking for a new place to meet. Viktor has finally, _finally!_ moved out of his expensive hotel room at the Ritz Carlton, and into a serviced apartment in Queens.

“I'm stuck on my music too,” Viktor admits over his tea, “I want this program to be special, but I still can't seem to find the right song.”

Viktor has also begun choreographing his next season’s program. He'd mentioned two weeks ago that he'd been practicing at a nearby rink, and had begun renting out a small ballet studio a few times a week for cross-training.

“What is your theme for this season?” Yuuri asks.

To his surprise, Viktor blushes and drops his eyes. “Rebirth and new beginnings,” he confesses, strangely flustered.

Rebirth and new beginnings. Yuuri can't help but muse that that's what his choreography is about too. In a sense, it's about moving past Eros. He’s come far enough to recognize that Eros was born out of his insecurity and low self confidence. Now, however, he wants to begin a new life with Viktor as Yuuri — just Yuuri. More than anything, he wants to be confident enough to stand beside Viktor as himself.

Across from him, Viktor sighs.

“I'm still not sure if I should arrange a meeting with the press to tell them that I'm competing,” he says, “What do you think?”

Yuuri starts, surprised to be asked his opinion, and considers the question seriously. “I think your fans deserve to know that you're competing,” he says.

Viktor smiles. “You're right, of course,” he agrees, and groans, “I just don't want the press to know I'm here. I'm not ready to touch that anthill yet. I'm not ready for the world to know where I am.”

He sighs.

Yuuri reaches over to put a hand over his, smiling softly.

“But you don't need a press meeting to let everyone know you're competing,” he says.

 

 

 **Viktor Nikiforov** @v-nikiforov . 1d  
Thank you all for the support and well-wishes. I have recovered and will be competing in the next season. My theme is rebirth and new beginnings.

 **Melanie Nikiforov** @myhusbandviktor09 . 6h  
HELP MY HUSBAND IS BACK AND IM NOT READY

 **Why Sala** @skatefangoldskate . 5h  
@myhusvandviktor09 omg I'm not ready either I just screamed into a pillow and my mom came to my room to ask if I'm okay

 **CBC Sports** @cbcsports . 5h  
BREAKING NEWS: Two-time Olympic figure skating champion, Viktor Nikiforov, confirmed to be returning to the ice after taking a season off.

 **Daily Mirror** @DailyMirror . 4h  
Russia’s national hero still missing in action despite confirming return to competitive figure skating? mirror.co.uk/sports/skating…

 **sTammy Vicino** @tammy-wammy . 3h  
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS!!!

 **Christophe Giacometti** @christophe-gc . 3h  
@v-nikiforov Bon choix! J'espère que vous avez récupéré!

 **Viktor Nikiforov** @v-nikiforov . 3h  
@christophe-gc Je vais tres bien, merci. À bientôt, mon ami.

 **GoldSkateFan** @goldskatefan . 2h  
But if he's planning to compete in the next season, then why isn't he in St. Petersburg?

 

 

Yuuri is just concluding the warm up when the door swings open.

Viktor strides in like he owns the place, a big bouquet of blue roses in his arms and a bigger smile on his face, but falters as he notices that they are not alone. He lets out a squeak.

“Didn't we say seven thirty?” Yuuri asks in a small voice.

“I thought it was six thirty,” Viktor yelps, turning to escape the room, “I'll just leave you to your class.”

“Oh no, wait,” one of his students interrupts, “it's alright! Why don't you sit in? We don't mind.”

The girl is wearing a slight smirk. Behind her, the rest of his students are beginning to share her mischievous expression. Viktor flounders at the door, looking back and forth between Yuuri and the girl who'd spoken. Finally, he inches into the corner by the door, and sits down with the bouquet in his lap.

Yuuri clears his throat. “Alright,” he says, attempting to regain control of the class, “Let’s wipe down our mats and get started, okay? You’ll need your waist exposed for this move.”

As everyone begins to adjust their clothes, either taking their shirts off completely or tucking the hem into various pieces of clothing, someone turns to look at Viktor. “If we’re all taking our clothes off,” she teases, “I think it's only fair that he takes his clothes off too. Right, Yuuri?”

Viktor flushes, and Yuuri can feel his own face warming.

“Ladies!” he yelps, scandalized, “Behave!”

The class erupts in laughter.

“I still think he should take his shirt off,” someone else chimes in, once the class is quiet again.

“You don't have to take your shirt off if you're not comfortable,” Yuuri quickly assures Viktor.

Viktor chuckles. “No, it's okay,” he says, “I’ll take my shirt off.”

He grabs the back of his collar and pulls his shirt off his head, before laying it out on the floor beside him. There's a quiet whistle from beside Yuuri.

“Damn, Yuuri,” one of his students mutters to him, “Your boy is really easy on the eyes.”

“You should take your pants off too,” someone else adds.

“Girls!” Yuuri yelps.

Viktor chuckles again, but lifts his hips up so he can push his pants down to his thighs and pull them off. He lays his pants out beside his shirt, before drawing his legs up against his chest. Even curled up, however, Yuuri can see the definition of his arms, calves, and chest, covered by the slightest layer of off-season pudge. He quickly averts his eyes as he feels his face warming. There are snickers from the class as he does so.

Silently, he begins to think up a set of extra hard conditioning exercises for the end of class.

 

 

Afterwards, as the class takes off, groaning from the conditioning, he approaches Viktor with a smile. Viktor stands and hands the bouquet to Yuuri. Yuuri’s face softens as he accepts it.

“I'm sorry my class made you take your clothes off,” he says, and grins sheepishly, “They are too mischievous for their own good sometimes.”

“It's alright.” Viktor laughs. “I enjoyed sitting in. I've missed watching you dance in person like this. The last time must have been two years ago. You’re as good as I remembered.”

Yuuri feels a sudden surge of smugness, combined with a sort of vain exhibitionism.

“Those were just beginner moves,” he dismisses, and smirks, “You haven't seen what I'm capable of now.”

Viktor’s eyes darken.

“Show me,” he says.

Yuuri turns to the corner where his phone his plugged to the sound system. He sets the bouquet down, before he opens Spotify, and hits play.

A [piano begins](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=egYUpyU-GxU) amidst quiet strumming, as he slinks slowly across the room. He throws himself into floorwork as it is joined by the strings of a sharp tango, tumbling down onto the floor, sliding, and then coming up onto his feet again. He catches himself on of the poles, extending longing fingers towards Viktor, before spinning up and around it. He improvises a routine for Viktor that is sultry eyes and coy beckoning, and as he comes near enough to draw a teasing finger underneath Viktor’s chin — Viktor _replies._

Pushing off the wall, Viktor slips forward in answer, spinning and reaching, pursuing Yuuri through the poles as they leap and twirl. They traverse the room in long graceful strides, always just out of reach, until finally, the song crests into chorus and they come together. Viktor falls so beautifully into being led, his body pliant against Yuuri’s as they revolve around the room, parting occasionally to make way for a pole, and then coming seamlessly back together again. He throws his head back, laughing, when Yuuri spins him under his arm, and Yuuri is finally emboldened enough to take Viktor by the waist, sweeping him down into a low dip.

Viktor wraps his arms around Yuuri’s neck, pressing their foreheads together as he comes back up. _“Yuuri,”_ he whispers, and tilts his head back as Yuuri presses his lips up under his jaw.

They continue to dance, pressed intimately against each other, their breaths beginning to come short in the space between their lips, until Viktor bends his head, pressing their lips together. Yuuri grabs a pole to stop them mid-motion, and deepens the kiss hungrily. Viktor gasps against his lips.

“Yuuri,” he whispers again, and Yuuri finally tears himself away, panting hard.

Viktor falls back against a pole, eyes dark and breath short. They stare at each other hungrily for a few moments, before Viktor lunges forward, seizing Yuuri’s wrist.

“Take me home,” he murmurs.

 

 

Yuuri wakes to the shine of mid-afternoon Iight over his bed. He opens his eyes, yawning, and is met immediately with the welcome sight of Viktor, smiling — an extremely goofy expression, if he's being honest — down at him. He can't help his own sappy smile in return.

“How long did I sleep for?” he asks.

“Just about ten minutes,” Viktor answers, “Not very long.”

Yuuri leans up to kiss Viktor, before sinking back into the pillows, stretching. He draws an appreciative eye down the pale expanse of Viktor’s chest. He can't help but reach out to touch, just drawing a light hand down Viktor’s bicep, before gripping him firmly around the elbow.

This is his, for as long as Viktor will have him, and he can't help but marvel at that fact.

They finally get out of bed to retrieve the trail of clothes they've left from the door to Yuuri’s bedroom, and to put the roses into a vase. Luckily, Phichit has gone home to visit his family and will be gone for a full month, or else he'd never let Yuuri hear the end of this. They quickly decide on an after-sex snack.

Viktor sits perched on the kitchen counter in his briefs while Yuuri gets the cornflakes out of the cupboard and pours some milk into a bowl.

“I want to see you dance more often,” Viktor blurts out suddenly, as Yuuri is turning back towards him with their bowl of cereal.

Yuuri stops, blinking, with one hand still on the door of the fridge.

Viktor flushes.

“I feel like it gives me more inspiration for my program,” he justifies, “It helps me to — to _reconnect_ with what I want this program to be about. I would like to watch you practice, if you're okay with having me there.”

Yuuri smiles. How can he say no to that?

“Of course,” he whispers.

As he's putting their empty bowl into the sink, his phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, and he leans over to read the notification. To his surprise, he has a text from a Russian number.

“Viktor did you just _text_ me from across the kitchen?” he asks.

“Uh,” Viktor says from behind him, “No?”

A little confused, he unlocks his phone and opens up his unread messages.

 **i want cool programs  
** **you will help me  
**  

“Who _is_ this?” he says, more to himself than to Viktor.

Viktor hops off the counter and leans over his shoulder to look.

“That's Yuri’s number,” he says.

Yuri? As in, Yuri Plisetsky? Yuuri’s phone buzzes as another series of messages come through.

 **yakov only does skating classixs  
** **butt i want to do more cool skating!  
** **classixs are borring!  
** **i want to chorograff my programs too!  
**

Yuuri chuckles, helplessly charmed, as he always is with Yuri. Behind him, Viktor is still reading over Yuuri’s shoulder. He laughs.

“I told you that you made an impression on him,” Viktor teases.

Chuckling, Yuuri types up a response.  
 

 **What do you want to skate to then?  
**  

He hits send.

Yuri begins typing almost immediately. After a moment, a YouTube link comes through. Yuuri clicks on it, and the video begins playing automatically.

He drops his phone as _screaming_ ensues on full volume.

Viktor jumps, and they both bend down, scrabbling for Yuuri’s screaming phone, until finally, Yuuri manages to pick it up and stop the video. The title of the song is Welcome to the Madness, and Yuri has sent a photo over text. It is a picture of himself with dark eyeshadow, wearing a ripped black tank.

“Yakov is going to kill him if he skates to that,” Viktor says, “Just saying.”

“Right,” Yuuri squeaks.

 **It's a great song,** he manages.  
**You should save it for your senior debut.**

**!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

 

Yuuri sighs in relief, the situation seemingly diffused. After a moment, he begins to laugh. Viktor chuckles along with him.

“He's a sweet boy,” Yuuri says fondly.

“Isn't he?” Viktor agrees.

 

 

Yuri adds him on Snapchat after that. He sends videos of practice in St. Petersburg, and videos of Yakov yelling, captioned in grumpy Russian. Even more often, he sends pictures of his cat, a young kitten named Potya.

Through Yuri, Yuuri gets an inside view of life in St. Petersburg. Yuri often videos himself speaking as he walks through the city, as opposed to texting. Yuuri soon learns that it's because he speaks English a lot better than he writes. His written English is limited at best.

It's— nice.

St. Petersburg is a beautiful place. It has a markedly different presence from the electric energy of New York City. Yubileynyy Sports Palace is beautifully located, and through Yuri, Yuuri is often blessed with the sight of long manicured avenues and sprawling lawns against cornflower blue skies, twilight jogs home by the Neva and the sunset over the ornate facade of the Winter Palace.

This is the city that Viktor has made his home, and Yuuri can't help but see him in it, can't help but be fonder of it for that. He can see Viktor strolling through these old stone pavements, stopping for coffee in a small cafe, or walking Makkachin in the park. He knows Viktor Skypes Makkachin through Yuri sometimes. He knows Viktor misses her terribly.

Sometimes, he even imagines himself there alongside Viktor, and has to pry himself from his daydreams. He's still not yet sure how far Viktor wants to take this. Still, he hopes that one day Viktor might take Yuuri to the place he calls home, might walk him down those winding avenues and introduce him to the people he loves.

In the meantime, however, he bides his time counting the silver strands of Viktor’s hair in the light of morning, in the freckles dotting his shoulders, and the way his lashes sweep down over his cheeks in sleep.

He is Viktor’s for as long as Viktor will have him, and that — that is an _incredible_ gift.

 

 

The morning before they are next set to meet, Viktor sends him a message.  
 

**Can we meet at a cafe near my rink instead?**

**Sure. Where is it?  
**

Viktor sends him an address in Queens. Yuuri pulls up the route from his apartment over Google Maps. It is not that far. It's a nice cafe apparently known for its pastries. The reviews are good.

**Sounds like a nice place. 8:30PM?**

**Yes. See you there! <3  
**

He sets out for his studio and hammers out the bit of his choreography he currently has. He's been unable to proceed with the rest of the routine for awhile, which is— frustrating.

Nearer to their meeting time, he gets dressed and walks home, showering, before he picks up his duffle bag for his shift at Madame Rouge. After he gets into the train, he plugs his earphones in and plays his competition music, tapping his fingers impatiently against his thigh. He sighs.

He'd believed that he would grow to like the song more as his choreography developed, but that has not been the case. More and more, he's feeling restricted by his song choice. It's not that he’s stuck on the choreography per se. It's there, the image of it somewhere behind his lids as he closes his eyes at night, but the music does not carry it.

He puts that out of mind as he reaches his stop. The cafe is a five minute walk down from the station. When he reaches the cafe, Viktor is already there, and looks to have been there for awhile. His cup is empty, and he's slouched sideways in his booth with his pencil between his teeth, frowning down at a notebook.

He looks up as Yuuri sits opposite him. His face brightens.

“Yuuri!” he cries, “Sorry to change locations so suddenly.”

“It's okay,” Yuuri says, smiling as he puts one hand over Viktor’s on the table, “I'm just glad to see you.”

Viktor flushes, looking pleased.

“I'm glad to see you too.”

Yuuri sets his duffle bag on the floor before turning in his seat to squint at the menu, written on a blackboard behind the counter. He decides on a cup of chamomile tea. It is slightly overpriced, the way most things are in New York City, but at least he can minimize his calories that way.

When he returns from the counter with his drink in hand, Viktor is frowning down at his notebook again.

“What's wrong?” Yuuri asks, sitting down.

Viktor sighs, setting the notebook aside. “I've been a little stuck on my program,” he admits.

So that makes the two of them.

“How come?”

Viktor chuckles, dryly. “I've settled on a song,” he explains, “but I guess I'm still feeling like it's not _the_ song, if you know what I mean.”

“Me too actually,” Yuuri blurts out, surprised.

“Song choices are hard,” Viktor agrees, and sighs, “But enough about that. Tell me about your week!”

They dissolve into lighter conversation for a spell. Viktor had sat in on a few of his practices this week, so Yuuri talks about some funny moments during his classes instead, talks about who had finally gotten their inverts and who had advanced to the next level, about his new class and what he thinks of them. In return, Viktor tells him how Yuri and Mila and Georgi and Yakov had taken Makkachin out on a picnic and Skyped him. He talks about his last Skype coaching session with Yakov. There, he seems to falter.

“There's something I want to ask you,” he blurts, “Would you be okay if— if I— I mean if you're not opposed, I— my program—”

Viktor trails off, looking strangely embarrassed. Yuuri smiles, encouraging, and Viktor flushes again.

“Would you like to come and watch me skate my program?” he finally asks.

Yuuri gets the feeling that that's not what he originally wanted to ask, but he can't help but perk up at the prospect.

“I would _love_ to,” he says.

 

 

They head straight to Viktor’s rink from there. The portly man at the counter nods warmly at Viktor as they come in. Inside, the rink is— small. Quiet, at least, with only the two of them there, but small all the same. This is the first time Yuuri has come here, and as Viktor skates out into the center of the rink, as he holds his arms aloft and closes his eyes, Yuuri sits forward in anticipation.

When the music begins over tinny speakers, Viktor eases into motion. Yuuri is pulled in immediately. Viktor has always had that magnetic sort of presence, lost in the depths of his art, and Yuuri just can't look away. As he watches, however, watches him glide and turn with immaculate grace, bending softly, he becomes aware of— a _disconnect._

Viktor as he is in the intimate space of his routines had always seemed so _large,_ so _much,_ more than this small rundown rink and more than these four walls _._ When Viktor is on the ice, everything falls away and the world goes quiet. When Viktor is on the ice, he is larger than life, and his presence now as he slips fully into the headspace of his program is bigger than this room, bigger than the scratched up walls of the rink, bigger than the two rows of unused bleachers surrounding it.

Viktor does not belong in this small rundown rink. He belongs on the vast ice of palatial stadiums, where he glows in the lights and where his presence fills the whole stand. He belongs in a place as large as he, where the ice seems endless and it looks like he's _soaring_. Viktor does not belong here, and Yuuri isn't sure how to feel about that.

He is broken out of his thoughts as Viktor halts the program halfway. He waves sheepishly at the counter staff, and the man stops the music.

Yuuri rises as Viktor skates towards him, stepping forward to meet Viktor at the plastic wall of the rink. Viktor smiles, tentatively.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

“Of course I did,” Yuuri answers immediately, “I love your skating, Viktor. I always will.”

“It's not completed yet,” Viktor says, “But I hope you'll come and watch me skate it when it is.”

Yuuri smiles.

“Of course.”

Viktor performs some of his old skates for Yuuri until Yuuri eventually has to leave for his shift. They share a quick kiss before Yuuri leaves, and Viktor returns to serious practice.

He quickly hurries into the subway and onto the train at the platform. He's left a little later than he should have. He's _late._ He arrives at Madam Rouge with five minutes to spare, and slaps on his makeup and costume in record speed. It's only then that he realizes.

His shoebag isn't hanging from his duffle as usual. He curses. He must have dropped it at the rink. He takes out his phone and shoots off a quick text to Viktor.  
 

 **I think I left my heels at your rink  
** **Could you take it home for me?**

  
He puts his phone back in his bag and stuffs it into his assigned locker. He gives himself a second check in the mirror, before heading out into the bar. It's getting late, the jazzy atmosphere of the lounge turning heavier, sultrier as the burlesque dancers begin their first shows of the night. A woman sits in a hoop on stage, suspended and bare breasted. A male dancer claps Yuuri on the shoulder in greeting before vanishing into one of the rooms.

Yuuri puts on his smile, tilts his head up, and strides off into the crowd.

It's not busy, but he finds a customer soon enough. The man is sitting by himself at one of the small tables, staring off towards the stage with an empty glass in hand. Tellingly, however, he is watching the male dancer instead of the woman in the hoop. That dancer is a lot bulkier, larger than Yuuri is, but it's still worth a shot. Yuuri teases a finger lightly over the man’s shoulder as he passes.

“Hey,” he says, “Are you here by yourself?”

The man starts. He turns around, stops as he finds himself face to face with Yuuri’s waist, and then tilts his head back to look him in the eye. He smiles.

“Are you going to keep me company?” he asks.

“If you want me to,” Yuuri answers, “How about I get you another one of those? What are you having?”

“Gin tonic,” the man says, “and one for you too.”

Yuuri smiles. “How sweet.”

He takes the glass from the man and heads back to the bar. The Madame is sitting perched on the counter today in a black lace corset, turning her hooded eyes on him as he smiles in acknowledgement.

“Two glasses of gin tonic,” Yuuri tells the bartender, and the man immediately begins to whip it up.

“Not in heels today?” the Madame asks.

“I left them with my— my boyfriend.”

 _Boyfriend_. The word feels weird on his tongue, but that's what he and Viktor are, aren't they? He turns his face down, coughing into his hand to hide his smile. The Madame is still watching him when he looks up.

“You look happy,” she says, “It's a good look.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri says shyly.

The bartender pushes two glasses across the table. Yuuri nods to the Madame before he takes the glasses, and heads off back towards his client. The man smiles as Yuuri sets the glasses down.

“Sit with me awhile?” he asks.

“Of course.”

He pulls up a chair and sits down. Things at work have generally been like this awhile. When he'd still been working hard for every dollar, he’d been a lot more focused on selling dances. Now though, he has savings, extra income from teaching, interest. He's actually been enjoying the opportunity to sit down and just — be an amicable presence. It helps that there's that sort of culture at Madame Rouge that there hadn't been at Bratty Catty’s or The Prix. Clients come here for the company.

It's not a bad thing. He still earns plenty of drink commissions, still earns more than enough to cover house fees. It's nice.

He talks with his client about inconsequential things for awhile, the weather, what he does for a living, a little bit of gossip about the other dancers, who's dating who and who's crushing hard on who. The man looks like he has something on his mind, but he eases up as time goes by, with each additional drink in his hand. He sobers a little though, sometime after the fifth drink.

He's looking again at the male dancer that he'd been watching when Yuuri had approached him.

“Something on your mind, hun?” Yuuri asks.

The man startles, but smiles as he turns back to Yuuri, something about the expression strangely sad.

“He just looks a lot like someone I know,” he says.

Yuuri senses a story there.

“Friend or lover?”

The man laughs. “My fiancé,” he admits, before sobering again, “He told me today that he cheated on me while I was away for work.”

Yuuri winces. “That's rough,” he says.

The man shrugs, looking down unhappily into his half-empty cup. “It is what it is, I guess,” he says, and tips the glass up, drinking the rest of it, before he sets the glass down. “One more for you too?"

Yuuri shakes his head.

“I'll pass,” he says, and smiles, “Have to maintain _some_ level of sobriety while at work.”

He waves a nearby waitstaff over instead of leaving to get the drinks. He has a feeling his client needs the company. The waitstaff comes over and takes their order, before heading back off to the bar. Yuuri turns back to his client

“Is that why you're here?” he asks.

The man laughs. “I guess,” he says wryly, “I thought I'd come somewhere risqué and tell him afterwards, make him feel how I felt. I'm not really doing a good job of it, am I?”

Yuuri puts a hand on his forearm briefly.

“I'm really sorry.”

The waitstaff comes back and sets another glass of gin tonic on the table. The man picks it up, staring idly into the glass as he turns it back and forth between his fingers.

“He cried when he told me,” he says suddenly.

Yuuri bites his lip.

“Do you love him?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to stay with him?”

The man pauses.

“I can't see a life with anyone but him,” he admits, “The day he proposed was the happiest day of my life. He's always made me so happy.” He sighs, and puts his hand over his eyes. “Maybe I shouldn't have taken that assignment. Maybe I shouldn't have left him for so long. I was away in Dubai for a year and I put our engagement on hold to do it. He was really against it and we still hadn't quite fixed things when I left.”

“You didn't make him cheat on you,” Yuuri says.

“I guess not,” the man agrees.

At the foot of the stage, a group of women cheer as a male dancer slips his thong off, rolling his hips slowly. They are clearly a hen party.

“I think,” Yuuri says, “the question now is whether or not you still see a life with him, now that this has happened, whether you want to fix things or if you think it's time to let go.”

“I do see a life with him,” the man says immediately, “I want— I'm still angry that he did this, and I don't think I can ever forget that he did, but I want him in my life. All of it. We still have so many years. I don't want to cut it short like this.”

At that declaration, the man seems to lighten, the tension easing slightly from his face. There's still sorrow in the slouch of his shoulders, but he seems happier now, his gaze turned inwards, bittersweet.

Yuuri smiles.

“I'm glad you have someone that you love the way you do,” he says.

“Yeah,” the man says, chuckling.

Yuuri stands up, puts a hand on his waist, and pops his hip out with a grin. “Come on,” he says, “Let’s give your boyfriend a little something to be jealous of, shall we? But not too much. Just one dance. I won't charge you.”

The man laughs, looking vaguely embarrassed, but nods. Yuuri smiles as he puts one knee onto the sofa, and then swings his other leg over so that he's straddling the man’s lap. The man has his eyes tightly closed now, and Yuuri can't help but laugh.

“You can tell him now that you went out and got a lapdance,” he teases.

The song that's playing is smooth and sensual, heavy like velvet, and he makes the most of it, rolling his hips slow, running his hands over his body and thighs. As the music picks up, he tosses his head back, closes his eyes, and just loses himself to the music. He slides a hand into his briefs, teasing the waistband of it down to expose the deep V of his pelvis, running his other hand through his hair as he rises up onto his knees.

He pushes the briefs down his thighs slowly, biting his lip. As his briefs fall around his knees, he stands to kick them off, before climbing back into the man’s lap. The man eyes dart up, back to Yuuri’s face. Yuuri smiles and leans in.

“Last chance to back out,” he whispers.

The man turns his chin up, defiant. Yuuri tilts his head and presses their lips together. He doesn't often kiss his customers during dances, but when he does, he usually keeps it short. He draws back after a few seconds, grinning, and then gets up as the song ends, right on cue.

“Alright then,” he says warmly, “Want another drink?”

The man shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and smiles, “No, thank you. I think I'm going to head home now.”

“Back to your fiancé?” Yuuri asks.

The man nods, a pleased flush on his face.

“I'll call the bill for you,” Yuuri says, stepping back into his briefs before heading off towards the bar. Behind him, the man takes his phone out of his pocket and begins to text, that gentle smile still on his face.

Grinning, Yuuri turns away. He meets gazes with someone across the room as he does, and double-takes to see who it is.

It's Viktor.

Yuuri’s heart stops in that moment, and the world goes silent.

Viktor is standing by the door, carrying Yuuri’s shoebag in one hand. His eyes are fixed on the client Yuuri had just been with, wide and— He turns suddenly, and shoves his way back out of the door.

Yuuri immediately gives chase. He tears down the room, throwing the doors open, and turns to find Viktor walking back towards the subway station, head down and hands in pockets.

“Viktor,” he calls, “Viktor, wait!”

Viktor turns around, startled. His brows immediately draw together in concern.

“Yuuri!” he says, _worriedly_ , and jogs back towards Yuuri. He shrugs his coat off, and puts it around Yuuri’s shoulders. “It's too cold to be walking around outside like that.”

Even now, he's still worried about Yuuri before anything else.

“I'm sorry,” Yuuri blurts out, “I didn't know— I mean I didn't _think—”_

He trails off there. What can he say? _I didn't know you were coming? I didn’t think you would mind?_ The cold hard truth is that this has been his job for years. He's always going to have to do what he does to earn his living, and that makes his apology an empty one.

It has always been something the other strippers talked about — partners not liking what they do, the growing distrust, the heartbreak. Many have taken to only dating other strippers. Somehow, though, things have been going so well with Viktor that he'd forgotten that he would eventually have to deal with this difficult situation.

Yuuri lowers his eyes, hugging Viktor's coat tighter around him.

“Are you mad?” he asks, in a small voice.

Viktor exhales sharply.

“No,” he says, “No, I just—” He puts his face in his hands, groaning. “I'm sorry. I thought that I could just be cool about this, you know? And I _was_ cool about it, in theory, but being there, seeing you— do what you do— I'm sorry. I was trying not to be that person, but I was just so overcome with jealousy. I hated it so much.”

“I'm sorry,” Yuuri whispers, “I really understand if you want to break up with me, but—”

“No!” Viktor shouts.

A passing couple turns to eye him strangely, before continuing on their way, whispering to themselves. Viktor winces, and lowers his voice.

“That's not I want,” he says, “I want to be with you, Yuuri. I don't want this to come between us. It's just that maybe I’m not as okay with all this as I _want_ to be, and I really do want to be because—” he huffs. “Because this isn't your fault Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s heart slows a little. Viktor doesn't want to break up. That means that they can still fix this.

“Do you trust me?” Yuuri asks.

“Of course I do!” Viktor says immediately, “This isn't at all because I don't trust you.”

Yuuri smiles, and steps forward. He tenderly tucks a stray lock behind Viktor’s ear.

“I promise you my emotional fidelity,” he vows, “No matter what kind of physical intimacy I might have to initiate with other people, my heart will always be yours only. Can you trust me on that?”

Viktor smiles, and bends his head to press their foreheads together.

“I already do,” he whispers, and chuckles, “I should probably just avoid watching you while you work.”

Yuuri nods his head enthusiastically, relieved.

“Yes, that sounds like a good plan,” he agrees, and smiles sheepishly, “I must admit that I really don't like you having to see me with my customers either. That's— That’s a different me than the usual me, and I don't really want you to see me that way.”

“Yeah,” Viktor says, sounding just as relieved.

Yuuri hooks an arm around Viktor’s neck, and pulls him down into a kiss. Viktor is warm against his bare body, warm enough to make him shudder involuntarily as he realizes just how cold it is. Viktor blindly grabs the lapels of his coat, and tucks it more securely around Yuuri. Yuuri wraps his other arm around Viktor’s broad back.

When they part, they are both slightly out of breath. They smile as they meet eyes.

“My program is about you,” Viktor blurts out, and then goes bright red.

“My routine is about you too,” Yuuri admits.

Viktor somehow gets even redder. His fair complexion does not lend itself well to embarrassment. The splotches have spread down his neck and into the v-neck of his training shirt.

“Is it alright if I incorporate elements inspired by your competition piece into my program?” he asks, “I wanted to ask just now in the cafe, but I didn't know how.”

Now it's Yuuri’s turn to blush.

“Of course you can,” he grants, and hesitates, “Can I— Can I put in some moves inspired by your programs into my competition piece?”

Viktor lights up. “Absolutely!”

Yuuri tilts his head up, smiling, and kisses him again.

After that, Yuuri has to go back into the club to complete his shift, while Viktor heads home to rest. Once Yuuri has finished up the rest of his shift, however, he takes the subway into Queens. The doorman smiles at Yuuri as he heads for the lifts, and taps him into the estate without further question. Yuuri’s been in and out a few times already. Viktor answers his door in his pajamas, but lights up when he sees who it is.

“Yuuri,” he whispers.

“I wanted to see you,” Yuuri admits, “Sorry to drop by unannounced. Can I stay the night?”

Viktor smiles.

“Of course.”

 

 

When, he comes home the next day, he spots a familiar pair of beaten up sneakers, lying discarded on the front mat. With mounting excitement, he pushes open the front door.

“Phichit!” he cries, “You're back!”

Phichit is sitting on the couch, head tilted against the back, his socked feet on the table. He grins at Yuuri’s entrance.

“I am,” he says, “I’m back.”

Yuuri smiles.

“Welcome back,” he says.

The visit home seems to have changed Phichit. There's a spark in his eye now as he talks about his future programs, about wanting to skate to Thai music, to add Thai dance elements to his programs. Celestino thinks that it's a good idea, and they have agreed to give it a trial run through an exhibition skate, before Phichit takes this to a competitive level.

“I want to introduce the world to the beauties of my country,” Phichit says.

 

 

Yuri continues to contact him regularly, but soon has to revert to text messages. Apparently, his data plan had _not_ been enough to support the sheer number of Snaps he’s been sending to Yuuri. He often dissolves into long strings of frustrated Russian that Yuuri obligingly puts through Google Translate. Most of it is just grumbling about having to write in English.

 **  
** you shuold just lern russian!!!  
 

Viktor tells him that Yuri’s English test scores have actually been improving tremendously. Amused, Yuuri plays with the idea of picking up Russian anyway.  
 

 **also tell viktor he is a pane  
** **sinse viktor tweetted that he will compeet  
** **many peeple have been comming to the rink  
** **they want to know ware viktor is**

   
When Yuuri receives that message, he bursts out laughing. He quickly shoots Viktor a text.

 **Yuri wants you to know that you are a pane.**  

 

 

Seasons change. Somewhere between Brooklyn and Queens, they begin to co-choreograph a piece. They spend a lot of time practicing, and a lot of time watching each other practice. Bit by bit, they begin to add to each other's programs, begin to create something between the two of them.

The music is a problem. The music has always been a problem, and at some point, Viktor just seems to give up.

“Let’s ditch our songs and commission a piece together,” he says, “It’ll be our song — a song for the two of us.”

The thing is, Yuuri has no idea how to commission a song, and so the first thing he does is ask Phichit for help. Phichit directs him right away to a music student from his university, and they meets up with her over coffee so that they can talk through their programs with her. She begins to work on it after that, sending them snippets, and making adjustments here and there per their request.

The completed piece comes back after a week. When Yuuri listens to it, he knows at once that this is it. This is the song that he wants to set his choreography to. This is the song that he wants to set _their_ choreography to.

He calls Viktor immediately and arranges to meet in Yuuri’s studio. He plays the piece for Viktor in the empty room, and marks through what he already has of his program. The choreography requires just some slight tweaking, but the _feeling_ is there, and that is the most important part.

“This is perfect,” Viktor gasps.

And it is.

They go back to completing the choreography, and this time, the movements flow so naturally. Soon enough, they are done with the last bits of their respective programs. Yuuri is endlessly proud of the piece they've made together. Somewhere between Brooklyn and Queens, they’ve created something beautiful.

 

 

**katsuki-yuri**

[A young man with black hair kneeling by a pole, face turned upwards, with both hands over his neck.]

Liked by **v-nikiforov, icequeenyuuko, phichit+chu** and **345 others  
** Thank you all for the support and well-wishes. The piece I’ve choreographed for this year’s International Pole Sport Championships is called  <Yuri!!! on Pole>

**v-nikiforov**

[A silver-haired man standing in the middle of the rink, eyes closed, with both hands over his neck.]

Liked by **katsuki-yuri, +guanghongji+,  christophe-gc** and **678 others  
** A sneak peak at my free skate for the coming season. This program is called <Viktor!!! on Ice>

 

 

**PEREZ HILTON: Viktor Nikiforov Found in NYC**

[A photograph of a silver-haired man leaning on the wall outside a club. His face is clearly visible.]

In the evening hours of yesterday, a photographer in Manhattan came across a familiar face on the doorstep of famous burlesque lounge, Madame Rouge. Viktor Nikiforov, a five-time World Champion and two-time Olympic Champion in men’s figure skating, has been an elusive and scandal-ridden figure over the past two years. Amidst continuous visits to strip clubs all over the US, including a visit on which he brought underage rinkmate Yuri Plisetsky, and rumors of drug abuse or steroids, Nikiforov suddenly vanished in the aftermath of the Winter Olympics after falling in his free skate. It was later announced that he would not compete in the next season.

As an avid user of social media, Nikiforov’s silence has been highly unusual. Compounding this anomaly has been Russian tabloid coverage of his absence from his St. Petersburg home. Rumors were rife that he had been checked into rehab or suffered a breakdown. Those rumors now appear to be unfounded. A month ago, Nikiforov broke his social media silence to huge commotion. He announced over Twitter that he would be competing in the coming season, but declined to take any press interviews, and did not respond to any requests for comment. Russian media exploded into action, tearing St. Petersburg apart in their quest to locate him. Yet, their national hero could not be found.

It now appears that Nikiforov had been in NYC all along. Nikiforov sported a wide grin yesterday as he waited outside the entrance of Madame Rouge, looking no worse for the wear. Minutes later, he was spotted having a short but _extremely affectionate_ conversation with a male stripper (just see what we mean in the photograph below), before they returned to a serviced apartment in Queens together, in the late hours of the night.

[A photograph of two men kissing outside the door of Madame Rouge. Their faces are blocked, but the taller’s hair is a bright silver.]

Two things have now become obvious: 1) Nikiforov has clearly been in NYC for some time. The serviced apartment he returned to requires a minimum of a month’s stay. 2) Nikiforov has also been engaging in quite some scandalous dealings, possibly to the detriment of his own career. Nikiforov’s coach, Feltsman, has been refusing to speak on his star student for months. In light of recent happenings, we can't help but wonder if _ex-star student_ is a better description of Feltsman’s and Nikiforov’s professional relationship.

Nikiforov’s reputation has been going downhill for awhile. It would not be remiss to guess that Nikiforov has finally been kicked out of Feltsman’s tutelage due to drugs and womanizing — or is it now manizing? Feltsman has always demanded a clean image and tireless discipline from his skaters. Furthermore, despite all its glamor and charm, NYC is not common training grounds for professional figure skaters. While internationally recognized figure skating coach, Cialdini Celesteino, _is_ based in New York, he responded with confusion and incredulity when a Perez Hilton reporter stopped him outside his rink today to ask if he’d seen Viktor Nikiforov.

Whatever it is, Nikiforov does not seem fazed by his lack of a coach, and is continuing to frolic his way through NYC, probably sleeping his way through its many strip clubs, judging by these photographs. We’ve also gone back through his past strip club scandals and come to an incriminating discovery: he has only ever patronized coed strip clubs! That is truly a feat considering just how rare coed strip clubs are. With that steamy kiss captured on camera, however, we can now guess why.

Right now, the biggest question is whether Nikiforov will be able to pick himself up without his star-studded coach, or whether he will let his womanizing (manizing?) ways wash him down the drain, to be forgotten along with the rest of our many fallen celebrities. If you ask us, however, we really do not have high expectations for this man.

 

 

When Viktor arrives at the cafe, he is wearing sunglasses and a beanie, his expression pinched. He grabs Yuuri’s wrist and pulls him out of their usual window booth, into one that's further into the cafe, hidden behind a large plant.

“The press knows I'm in New York,” he says in a whisper.

Yuuri’s eyes widen.

“How?” he asks.

Viktor shrugs helplessly. “Someone photographed us outside your club,” he admits, and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I should have been more careful. I should have been more _aware_.”

“What do we do now?” Yuuri asks.

“I don't know,” Viktor says.

They try to talk about other things for awhile, but Viktor is tense the whole time. He keeps peering over his shoulder out the window. They were supposed to go to Viktor’s place after that, but Viktor just shakes his head as they head down into the subway station.

“I don't think you should come,” he says, and sighs frustratedly, “There’ve been paparazzi camped outside my apartment.”

Yuuri bites his lip.

“Do you want to stay at my place for a bit?” he offers.

Viktor looks tempted, but he shakes his head. “No,” he says, “If they follow us to your place, it'll be even worse.”

“Are we still on for Friday then?” Yuuri asks.

“I don't think we should,” Viktor says reluctantly.

“When— When will I see you next then?”

Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand automatically, and freezes up. He looks quickly back over his shoulder, but there's no one watching them. He turns back to Yuuri.

“I'll call you,” he says fiercely, “I’ll sort this all out, and after everything’s sorted, I’ll call you.”

With that, he looks over his shoulder one more time, before pushing up his sunglasses — and vanishing off into the station.

 

 

Viktor does not call for the rest of the week.

Yuuri is frankly, a mess. He does not call or text Viktor back, just waiting dutifully, as Viktor had requested. Secretly, however, he's beginning to wonder if Viktor just doesn't want the press to know he's involved with a stripper, to know that he's involved with a man. Even though Yuuri understands the huge media fallout that would cause, it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

But this isn't about him, of course, he tells himself sharply. If Viktor doesn't want anyone to know, Yuuri will accept his decision. He understands why.

After two weeks of silence, Yuuri finally gets a text.

 **I’ve sorted things out  
** **Can we meet?  
**

Yuuri almost drops his phone in excitement when he sees the notification.

 **Yes please!  
** **I've missed you  
** **Dinner?**  

 **Tonight? 6:30PM?  
** **I need to talk to you**

  
Viktor sends him an address.

He looks at the time, and immediately gets up. He has two hours. He quickly hops into the shower, scrubs himself clean, and then shrugs into a sweater and jeans. There's a wide grin splitting his face. He’s missed Viktor so terribly and is beyond excited to see him again. With a bounce in his step, he heads off for the subway station.

“Good afternoon!” he cries, as he passes the newsstand outside the station. There are some flowers by the front, and he stops, impulsively, to pick out a tulip for Viktor. As he straightens, however, he catches sight of a familiar face.

Viktor is on the front cover of a sports magazine.

He pulls the magazine off the stand, and frowns as he catches sight of the blurb at the bottom of the page.

_Viktor Nikiforov talks singlehood and getting back into competition._

_What?_

He buys a copy of the magazine, and sits down on the stairs heading down into the station to read the article. When he's done, he stands up numbly, turns around, and heads straight home.

Alone in his room, the tears come quick. He presses his hands over his mouth to suppress the sobs, curling up in his bed.

Viktor had told them he was single. Viktor had told them he had _not yet found the one_ , and that he was _still looking._ Sniffling, he unlocks his phone and Googles Viktor’s name. Viktor's apparently said the same to CBC News, Eurosport, the Guardian, and a bunch of other news sources, including _Perez Hilton_ of all tabloids. That just makes him cry harder.

He looks back at the messages Viktor had sent him. In retrospect, they had been a little less affectionate than usual. Viktor had also said he needed to talk to Yuuri about something. Isn't that what people usually say when they want to break up?

Maybe that's what Viktor wanted to meet for. If so, he's glad that he turned back when he did. His heart would never have been able to take Viktor’s rejection in person.

Still numb, he turns his phone off, puts it in the drawer, and pulls the blanket over his head.

 

 

He is woken up by knocking some time later. He hadn’t even realized he'd fallen asleep, but as the memory of what had happened returns to him, he begins to cry again. His eyes feel puffy and tight from all the tears, but he manages to master himself as the knock comes again, and wipes his face on his blanket.

Phichit winces as he opens the door.

“Well, _you_ look like shit,” he says.

“Thanks,” Yuuri croaks.

Phichit clears his throat. “I have no idea what's happening,” he begins, “But Viktor has been calling me non-stop in a panic my whole ride home, asking if I've seen you and asking to talk to you. Have you not been answering his calls?”

Yuuri realizes then that he'd forgotten to cancel on Viktor.

“I turned my phone off,” he admits, and goes back into his room to fish his phone out of the drawer. When he turns it on, he's greeted with eight missed calls and about twenty messages from Viktor. He doesn't really have the heart to read them, or to even be angry, really. He's just— He’s just _utterly_ heartbroken that Viktor is apparently so ashamed of him that he’d _lie outright_ to the press. The latest message sounds panicked enough, though, so maybe Viktor _hadn't_ been about to break up with him, but still…

“Just tell Viktor I don't want to see him,” Yuuri says tiredly. He puts his phone back in the drawer, and sits down on his bed with his head in his hands.

When he looks up, Phichit is still in the doorway.

“Have you broken up with Viktor?” Phichit asks.

“No,” Yuuri admits, and sniffles. Suddenly, the tears are flowing again. “Maybe I should,” he sobs, “but I don't want to. I love him. How can I be in a relationship with someone who's so ashamed of me he’d lie to the press, though — and without telling me either!”

“Yuuri,” Phichit begins pityingly.

Yuuri sighs.

“I need some time alone,” he mutters, “Sorry.”

Phichit sighs, but turns away.

“Alright,” he says reluctantly, “Just— try not to overthink things okay?”

He closes the door quietly behind him, and Yuuri flops over onto his pillow to cry some more.

 

 

When Phichit knocks on his door again, less than an hour later, Yuuri is tempted to yell at him to go away. Unfortunately, absolutely none of this is Phichit’s fault, and he'd feel terrible if he yelled at Phichit, so he groans, and drags himself out of bed.

When he opens the door, however, Phichit is _not_ on the other side.

“Yuuri,” Viktor begins, in a small voice.

Phichit is standing off to one side, toeing on his shoes gingerly. He is pointedly not looking at either of them.

“I'm giving you two some space,” he says loudly.

The door slams shut after him.

After that, there is only silence.

“Phichit says you saw the articles,” Viktor says, and closes his eyes, “and that it really hurt you. _Please_ just— let me explain.”

Yuuri sighs, and puts a hand over his face.

“What’s there to explain?” he asks tiredly.

Viktor steps forward.

“I didn't want them to pull you into it!” he blurts out, “You’ve just— you’ve always been such a private person. I didn't want to be the one to throw your life into chaos.”

He lets out a miserable huff. “The media is vicious, you know?” he continues, “They would have picked apart every aspect of your life and torn it to shreds. I was just—”

He closes his eyes tight, clenching his fists.

“I was just _so worried_ you'd hate me for it,” he admits quietly, “that I didn't think about how it would look to you. I'm sorry. I would never be ashamed of you. You're the best thing in my life.”

He looks down, picking nervously at his nails, before he looks back up at Yuuri. His blue eyes are perfectly honest and filled with love, as they have been every day since the day he first showed up in New York City.

“I'm so sorry, Yuuri,” he whispers, “Will you please forgive me?”

Yuuri is just silent for a few seconds.

He realizes then that he’d been _catastrophizing_ , as his therapist would call it. Viktor has never given him reason to doubt that he truly loves Yuuri, and if he were really so ashamed of Yuuri, he certainly wouldn't have spent all that time choreographing an extremely public program about their love. These programs they've made together are the strongest evidence of their feelings for one another, and Yuuri feels so abruptly stupid for letting himself spiral like he had.

“No,” he finally says, and steps forward into Viktor’s arms.

Viktor stiffens. After a moment, however, he eases, wrapping his arms tight around Yuuri’s back. Yuuri closes his eyes then, feeling a little like he might cry again.

“Forgive _me_ for doubting you,” he whispers.

 

 

When they come out of Yuuri’s room together the next morning, hand in hand, Phichit looks up from his cereal, and smiles.

“I'm glad you've made up,” he says.

 

 

Things are not easy after that. Paparazzi follow Viktor everywhere, asking him countless questions and constantly taking pictures. There are articles coming out every week about what Viktor is doing, where he's going, what he's eating, and anything and everything he's said. Viktor is right, of course, that Yuuri would hate to have his life picked apart like that, and so they've agreed to keep their relationship secret. That's been really hard.

It's hard to meet, harder to explore New York with the same wonder they once had. Everywhere they go, it feels like they are always looking over their shoulders. The rink Viktor is at is not private, like Yubileynyy is, and while the owner tries to turn paparazzi away at the door, some of them get pass by pretending to be genuine customers. It's taking a toll on Viktor, who's beginning to look more and more like a caged animal, hunted and harried, and it makes Yuuri _ache._

He watches Viktor skate compulsory figures in that small rundown rink, tension in his shoulders and face, and remembers his thoughts from the first time he'd visited.

Viktor does not belong here. Viktor has always been too big for this rink, too big for this city, too big for New York. Yuuri loves New York City. He does. He loves the skyscrapers of Manhattan, the neon billboards and the constant buzz of traffic. He loves Brooklyn, the artists, the winding pavements and the graffiti on the walls. He loves the clutter. He loves the electric energy. He loves how so much always seems to be happening.

But Viktor belongs along sprawling avenues, along the spacious stretch of the Neva where the musicians play, along old stone pavements and the austere fronts of Russian palaces. Viktor belongs someplace where he can see the sky and sea. He belongs on the ice of palatial stadiums. He does not belong here, in cluttered New York City.

He goes out to Fifth Avenue that day and walks along the long stretch of shops, looking, browsing, until he finds the perfect one.

Once he's done, he goes to Viktor’s apartment, where Viktor has set up a dinner date. There are candles, and wine, and roses, blue. Viktor is relaxed for once, beyond the ever-watchful eye of the paparazzi now, the curtains closed. They lean across the table for a kiss. After that, Yuuri finally speaks up.

“You should go back,” he says quietly, “You should go back to Russia.”

Viktor bites his lip, and closes his eyes.

“Somehow I thought you would say that,” he whispers sadly.

“Our pieces are done now,” Yuuri continues, “You said you needed to be here because you needed inspiration for your choreography, but that's finished. The skating season is starting again in three months. You should be training under Yakov now until then.” He exhales, and looks down at his hands. “My qualifiers are almost here too,” he admits, “I hate to be away from you but— I need to double down as well.”

Viktor nods, looking resigned.

“Yakov has been nagging me to return for awhile,” he says, and sighs, “But I— I don't want to leave you.”

Yuuri reaches into his pocket then, and pulls out the box. Viktor's eyes widen as he opens it.

“It's a promise ring,” Yuuri explains, “It’s a promise that I'll wait, however long it takes, until we can be together again.”

Viktor smiles a bittersweet smile.

“Is it _just_ a promise ring?” he asks.

Yuuri has to lower his eyes at that, heart pounding. He’s not sure of how to answer that question, so in the end, he just turns the question back on Viktor.

“Is that a proposal?” he asks.

Viktor reaches across the table, and grasps Yuuri’s hands in both of his.

“If we both win gold,” he says quietly, “I want to marry you.”

Yuuri closes his eyes. A tear slides down his cheek as a smiles breaks across his face.

“Yes,” he whispers.

 

 

Viktor packs up, and is gone within the week. As the term draws to its end, Noemie asks him to take on a few of her advanced classes, and to start a few classes of his own. It means that he has to get an advanced teaching certificate, but he says yes. He begins filling up the applications for the coming competition. With some hesitation, he also signs up for a Russian language class.

He misses Viktor terribly. He misses Viktor everyday. However, he is reminded of their promise constantly by the band he now wears on his finger.

He resumes his training with an immovable resolve.

He is going to make it to internationals, he knows, and this time, he is determined to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter than usual, but it has been an insanely long wait so I hope you guys enjoyed the extra length. At first, I was determined to put this aside until after I'd pounded out an epic-length fic for a bang. However, I got a bunch of amazing comments suddenly out of the blue, and that really motivated me to pick this fic up again. I don't think I've ever finished a chapter so quickly.
> 
> It took me awhile to flesh out how I really wanted this to end, but I have a better idea of it now, and so hopefully I'll be able to update more frequently and finish this fic up for good. If you haven't already noticed, I've bumped the expected chapter count up by a chapter. After pounding out the outline for this chapter and the next chapter, I realized I'd need longer to finish this.
> 
> Lastly, you guys have said that you liked watching the pole videos I recommended, so if you guys wanna see another cool program, check [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iRWKzVzvHtk) out. I've also had to take a bit of a break from pole, but a fandom friend dropped by some time ago, so I ended my long break to attempt the moves from the banquet scene (even though a number of them have now fallen out of my skill range). We made a fun video out of it, which you can find [here](https://asideoftrashplease.tumblr.com/post/176991106965/asideoftrashplease-bee-tries-the-yoi-pole-moves).
> 
> Would love to hear what you guys thought about the chapter! I've made so many meaningful connections in the comments section of his fic, and am excited to continue doing so. Even if you're too shy to leave a comment, you can always follow me on [my Tumblr](https://asideoftrashplease.tumblr.com/), where I post about my writing from time to time.


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